


A Tale of Snows and Waters, A Song as Old as Time

by GhostandMiracle42



Series: Ghost and Miracle's Game of Thrones [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Game of Thrones - Freeform, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lots of plot, Now a total rewrite, but a little more fantasy without taking away the themes and realism, but with plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24859993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostandMiracle42/pseuds/GhostandMiracle42
Summary: Princess Myrcella Baratheon is of the opinion that Ghost the Direwolf is utterly magnificent. Oh, and his human Jon Snow is alright too.A 16-year-old Myrcella meets Jon in Winterfell, which changes more than anyone could possibly imagine.A different take on Game of Thrones if it was a little more fantasy, and the back seasons a little less crap, without sacrificing the realism that makes it legendary. Starting in Winterfell with the King's visit, and now on Daenerys conquest of Westeros.Part 2 is a full episode by episode break down.
Relationships: Myrcella Baratheon/Jon Snow, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Ghost and Miracle's Game of Thrones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798651
Comments: 94
Kudos: 179





	1. Volume I

#  **_ Volume I _ **

* * *

# Myrcella I

Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon had a mission. A mission of utmost importance to undertake while she was in Winterfell. Admittedly she would be staying in the dreary northern keep for two months, but she saw no reason not to get her mission out of the way as fast as possible. Maybe, if she were lucky, her mission would be a success, and she'd secure herself a name day present. Her name day fell roughly halfway through the royal families stay in the North, though Myrcella knew that the odds of her mother and father actually remembering it were very low. No, her name day would be another celebration with just herself, her little brother Tommen, her favourite uncle Tyrion, her uncle Jamie – if he wasn't on duty, and her handmaiden Rosamund Lannister. It was thanks to Rosamund that Myrcella was capable of carrying out her mission. Myrcella and Rosamund looked practically identical, with the main difference between them only the way their hair sat – Myrcella's was curly, but Rosamund's was straight. It had been Tyrion's idea at first, to have the pair switch places in an attempt to pull a joke on Joffrey, but after even her mother was fooled by the switch, the girls made a regular habit of trading places. The only people who could tell them apart when switched were Uncle Tyrion, Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan of the Kingsguard.

So now, as Rosamund was being escorted to an embroidery lesson by Myrcella’s mother, Myrcella was making her way towards the Godswood of Winterfell to complete phase one of her mission. She nodded politely to the Stark man standing guard at the entrance, and he tilted his head towards her with a smile. It was a smile she was used to. She was almost fifteen now, and she received that smile from lots of guards. It certainly wasn’t lost on Myrcella that she had inherited her mother’s figure and beauty, and it wasn’t lost on the knights, guards or squires either. She passed through the gate and walked gracefully across the packed earth. She stepped slowly and softly, listening intently to the sounds of the birds chirping away in the breeze.

The Godswood was nothing like any garden she'd ever seen before. There were no planting lines, no shrubs or hedges, and yet, despite the apparent wild and unplanned nature of the space, no branches interfered with another tree's growth, nor were there any overly large twigs on the ground. The trees were also all healthy, green leaves towering high into the sky. But it was the smell that really threw her. The enclosed forest smelled so different from any other garden she'd been in.

There was a taste to the air, an aroma on the wind that she couldn't quite place. It was something uniquely Northern she decided. Something wild and untameable. She wished she could capture it for her own garden, back at the Red Keep. Eventually, after a walk that admittedly took longer than it could have, she entered a clearing dominated by a deep black pool. The water was perfectly still, not a ripple to be seen, and on the other side was the most magnificent tree she’d ever seen. That was part one of her mission. To see a Weirwood with a face.

She’d seen Weirwoods before in the South of course. Their pale white bark and ever red leaves were always a dead giveaway. But they were few and far between, and none had faces. Myrcella loved all types of flora, from the grandest tree to the least spectacular flower. But not only did she enjoy looking at them, she loved working with them and learning about them. She never allowed anyone to tend her garden at the Red Keep. She watered every flower, potted every new plant, trimmed every bush and fertilized every seed herself – no matter how many times her mother told her getting dirty was unfit for a lady. She spent hours in the Red Keep library reading about the plants she cared for, and she made sure to give Uncle Tyrion a list of new specimens to collect whenever he went on his travels. But she’d never seen a Weirwood with a face.

Myrcella slowly made her way towards the tree in reverence. The face was carved into the bark, with red sap leaking out of its eyes like tears. She resisted a shiver as she placed a hand on the trunk. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew that this was where the smell of the wild permeating the air came from, that atmosphere that made this place seem like another world. It was a presence totally unlike what one felt in the Sept of Baelor. There she just felt small. Here it truly felt as though some power had a hold over the place. _Maybe it does…_ she thought to herself. Uncle Tyrion said the Weirwood faces were carved by the Children of the Forest long ago, that the spirits of the Children live on so long as their sacred trees remained standing.

"Come on Ghost!" Myrcella snapped around to see a stick hurtling through the air. A white-furred canine bolted out from the trees, jumped into the air, and snagged the stick in its jaws before landing back on the ground. Myrcella couldn’t help the smile that slid onto her face as she watched the animal run back the way it came. It stopped short at the tree line, and Myrcella watched as a boy with curly black hair perhaps a year older than her grabbed hold of the stick and began pulling against the dog, which had clamped its jaws down hard and was now engaging in a match of tug-of-war. Her mind flashed back to the previous night, when she had sat at the high table with Robb Stark. He had said that each one of the Stark children had a Direwolf as a companion. She hadn't believed him at first until he discreetly told her to look under the table of his sister Arya. She had, simply to humour him, then chocked on her drink when she saw that Arya actually had a wolf sitting under her table, and was feeding it strips of bacon pinched from the meal.

 _“Told you so,”_ Robb had said with a smirk.

That meant the boy with the curly black hair was a Stark. But which one? He obviously wasn’t Robb; nor was he a girl, so Arya and Sansa were out; and he was too old to be Bran or Rickon, both of whom were younger than her. So, who was he?

The Direwolf pulled the boy down to the ground, before jumping onto his back and licking his face.

"Ghost!" the boy exclaimed through his laughter, "get off!" Myrcella couldn't help giggling at the boy's predicament. The white-furred Direwolf perked up, head-turning towards her, as did the boy, whose face went from gleeful mirth to abject horror upon seemingly realizing who she was.

“Princess Myrcella! I’m sorry I…” Myrcella didn’t even have enough time to realise he’d seen through her disguise, because the second he said her name, the wolf – Ghost – was sprinting towards her. Myrcella, anticipating a flying wolf any second, bent down to the ground just in time for the ball of white fur to slam into her, knocking her to her arse. Ghost stood on her chest, panting for a second before he started licking her face.

"Ghost!" the boy exclaimed, rushing over to them. He pulled Ghost off her and, his face a very bright shade of red, offered her a hand. She smiled softly and let him pull her to her feet. Her simple woollen dress – one of Rosamund's favourites – was crinkled in a few places, but otherwise seemed fine, and there were no claw marks on her cloak.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammered, looking down at the ground in shame. Myrcella couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t worry about it. No harm done," she told him. She was as used to this reaction as she was the guards' smiles. The total and instant fear that accompanied the realisation one was talking to a princess.

Then, as if suddenly realising his hand was still in hers, he jerked away as if burned, and stared her in the eye as if he’d just committed a terrible sin and was awaiting punishment. She frowned; that wasn’t something she’d seen before. With Joffrey? All the time. Directed at her? Never.

"I… I'm… A thousand pardons, your Grace. I apologise for intruding upon you. I'll leave you be." He said, before backing away as fast as he could without turning around. Ghost, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy staying where he was. Instead of following his master, he curled his way around Myrcella's legs, rubbing his fur up against them.

“Ghost, please come on,” the boy pleaded.

“It’s alright. Really. I think he’s amazing. His name’s Ghost?” She asked, desperately trying to break through whatever fear was enveloping him. She bent down and rubbed the Direwolf’s nose, and he licked her fingers in response.

“Aye,” he said hesitantly.

“And you are?”

“Jon Snow, your Grace.” Ah. He was a bastard. That’s why he was terrified of her.

"Tell me, Jon Snow, how is it you came to possess such a ferocious beast?" She asked playfully. Jon hesitated again, looking around the Godswood, no doubt for the guards he presumed were poised to lop his head off for even speaking to her. "Don't worry, there are no guards. And I am not my mother. I do not carry her fear of bastards."

Jon Snow relaxed slightly at that she noticed, though he still seemed ready to bolt.

“We found him and his five siblings freezing in the wild. Their mother was dead, so we brought them back here.” It was the same story as the one Robb had told her, but he only mentioned five wolves. He had omitted his bastard brother. In that moment, she realised she _did_ remember him. He was the one sitting at the low tables who’d shouted at the man from the Night’s Watch before fleeing the hall. And she remembered Lady Catelyn’s face. Full of rage and hatred as he stormed out the doors. Was Robb ashamed of his brother? Or did he not mention him on orders from his mother and father? It was clear enough Jon had been kept away from the royal family. She would have remembered seeing someone as handsome as him. And he _was_ handsome. The black curls and beginnings of a beard on his chin contrasted with his pale skin. Aside from Arya, he was the only Stark who looked even remotely like Lord Eddard. He was built too. Not unlike Uncle Jaime. He was a swordsman. And Myrcella couldn’t deny having a guide would be very helpful to complete phase two of her plan.

"Well Jon, I find myself in need of a guide. You see, I am a procurer of exotic flora of all types, and I am here on a secret mission. I wish to find Winter Roses so that I might commandeer some to bring back to my gardens in Kings Landing. Could you perhaps aid me in this endeavour?" She said it sweetly, following Uncle Tyrion's lessons on charming people to appeal herself to him. Jon looked around him again, the fear in his face having lessened once more, before turning back to her.

“I.. uh… I could escort you, your Grace. But where are your guards?”

Myrcella stepped over to him, and she saw him resist taking a step backwards. Good, he was a quick learner. She leaned toward him and whispered, "I think you'll find that the guards are watching Princess Myrcella as she enjoys an embroidery lesson with Lady Sansa. I am Rosamund Lannister, merely a handmaiden in my lady's service. At least while she's pretending to be me." She winked at him and used the distraction to loop her arm with his. He stared at her incredulously, but didn't move his hand. He was taller than her, as most people were, but not by as much as Robb was, so hanging on his arm was far more comfortable she had to admit.

“That’s quite the trick, your Grace. Why does no one recognise you?” Jon asked, his curiosity getting the better of his fear.

"Rosamund and I are practically identical. All it takes is for us to switch hairstyles and my even my mother can't tell us apart. You're the first person besides Uncle Tyrion, Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard who can tell the difference. What gave me away?"

Jon looked sheepish for a second and glanced down at their joined arms. She slowly began guiding them back to the entrance to the main castle.

“I’ll admit I made sure to commit your likeness to memory last night so that I could avoid you or your brothers. Lady Stark was rather express in her command that I stay as far away from the royal family as possible." Myrcella took two things from that. One was that Lady Stark was the reason behind Jon’s isolation, and two, that he had been watching her. She wasn’t sure why, but the idea sent a pleasant shiver through her body.

“Like I said. I don’t care if you’re a bastard or Aegon Targaryen reborn. Ghost is lovely, and if he’s decided you’re worth hanging around, then who am I to gainsay him.” That was what did it. Jon laughed, and the grim façade shattered. By the time they reached the castle courtyard, both of them were laughing, and the guards gave Jon a rather angry glare as they passed. If Jon saw it, he ignored them. Instead, he led Myrcella around the courtyard and under an archway, and they arrived inside a glass garden larger than any she’d ever seen. Not only did they house flowers and vegetables, but whole rows of wheat and oats were contained within.

“Wow.”

“Winter is coming," Jon said solemnly, and she nodded her understanding. The crops were in preparation for the coming winter, when most everything north of the Neck could be expected to freeze over.

Jon led her a short way into the glass garden until they came upon a patch of winter roses glistening like crystals in the light.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered, running her hand over the petals of one.

“How will you get them back to Kings Landing?” Jon asked.

“I plan to re-pot a bush the day before we leave. Between Uncle Tyrion, Rosamund and I, we should be able to get it back to the Red Keep alive,” she explained. Jon nodded, before sliding a dagger from his belt and cutting one of the stems. He took the flower and carefully trimmed the thorns away, before sliding her hair back over her ear and placing the flower in her hair. She couldn’t help it, she blushed. Hard.

“Well, I think you should have a taste now. You’re going to be here in Winterfell for a while after all,” he said, blushing almost as hard as she was.

Ignoring the butterflies suddenly springing up in her stomach, and the return of that tingling rush, she sighed and smiled at him.

“Thank you.” Then she swallowed, “I should be getting back before Rosamund finishes my embroidery.”

Jon blanched, “Right. Of course.” Jon released her arm, and she leaned up, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Then she skipped back the way she came. She stopped briefly at the gate, looking back at him.

“Do you play with Ghost in the Godswood often?” She asked.

"Uh… yes. I ah… yes, I do,” he stuttered.

“Good. I’d like to see my new friend Ghost and his companion Jon again when I return on the ‘morrow.” She ducked into the archway and made her way back to the keep. Her cheeks inflamed as she thought of the flower in her hair, and how Jon’s hand had been touching his cheek where she kissed it when she turned back to him.

* * *

# Jon I

Jon wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at the archway where the Princess had vanished, hand hovering over his cheek. It was Arya who eventually found him.

“Jon? Jon! JON!!” Jon snapped out of his delirium and turned his eyes on Arya. She was standing right in front of him, pulling on the sleeve of his jerkin and breathing as if she’d run a great distance.

“What’s up with you?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I… I ah… I…” Jon stuttered as everything hit him like an avalanche. The Princess had kissed him. He’d given her a flower. A rose. And she’d _kissed_ him. _Him_. The Bastard of Winterfell. What would Lady Stark say!? But she didn’t know, the rational side of his brain said. Even if she had seen them, she would have seen the Princess’s handmaiden, Rosamund. If even Queen Cersei and King Robert couldn’t see through the disguise, surely Catelyn couldn’t? That brought up a whole other line of thoughts. She likes nature. She loved Ghost, and Ghost seemed to like her too. She was funny and adventurous. Nothing like Sansa or Jeyne. Yet, not like Arya either. She could pretend to be a lady, and she liked the things he associated with girls like flowers and gardening, but that didn’t mean she was as stuck up and set in her ways as Sansa or Lady Stark. And she snuck away from her guards! If Jon were a betting man, he'd say she did it quite often. And she was going to meet him in the Godswood again tomorrow!!

“I have to find Robb,” Jon exclaimed, oblivious to Arya, who was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“That’s what I’ve been saying! That little shit Joffrey challenged Robb to use live steel while they were sparring, and when Rodrik said no he the Lannisters all mocked him! I don't like him one bit! But Sansa's going all doe-eyed every time he walks into a room! Why can't she just…" Jon wasn't listening. He was already running towards the Great Keep, Ghost at his heels. He vaguely noticed that Arya and Nymeria were chasing after him, but Jon was more focussed on Robb. He’ll know what to do, he told himself. Robb was brilliant with women. Jon was not, and he’d ask Greyjoy for advice on girls only when the seven hells froze over.

* * *

When Jon arrived in the Godswood with Ghost the next morning, after Robb had left with his father and the King to go on the hunt, Myrcella was already there. Standing beneath the Weirwood, disguised as Rosamund once again.

“Princess,” Jon said, unable to help the smile that traced its way onto his lips.

Myrcella turned towards him, a smile lighting up her face as she did so.

“If I’m calling you Jon, the least you can do is call me Myrcella,” She said as Ghost raced over to her. He stopped at her feet and started licking her hand.

“He really likes you,” Jon said, following Ghost’s footsteps and approaching Myrcella. She looked even more beautiful today than yesterday, Jon thought. She was wearing a simple red gown and no shoes, her golden hair fanned out around her shoulders like a halo.

“He’s an excellent judge of character,” Myrcella said, scratching under Ghost’s chin as the Direwolf’s’ tail slowly wagged back and forth.

“The only other person he’s like that with is Arya,” Jon admitted as he reached them. Ghost rolled onto his back, and Jon and Myrcella both knelt down to scratch his belly.

“Your younger sister? The wild one?” Myrcella asked, raising an eyebrow. Jon couldn’t help puffing his chest out a little.

“Aye. She’s certainly wild. But I wouldn’t have her any other way. They say she’s my Aunt Lyanna come again.”

Myrcella laughed, “I don’t doubt it. My father tells stories about Lyanna Stark all the time. About how fierce she was, yet beautiful and kind at the same time. I think I would have liked her.”

“My father never talks about it. The Rebellion.”

“Mine never shuts up about it,” Myrcella said, and they both burst out into more laughter. Then she leaned back against the Weirwood and closed her eyes.

“I love this place. The sounds of the birds in the air, the smell of freedom, the aura of power. It truly feels like you’re with the Old Gods here,” she said softly. Jon couldn’t take his eyes off her as she took a deep breath, the red of her lips matching the Weirwood leaves. She really was _gorgeous._

“You know about the Old Gods?” Jon asked, genuinely surprised. Myrcella sighed and opened her eyes, fixing her emerald orbs on him.

“I was born in the light of the Seven, but I don’t believe in them. It’s funny, really. Every other main religion in both Westeros and Essos is centred on fact. On a type of magic we can either prove is real, or know _was_ real at some point. Except for the Faith of the Seven. Magic died in Westeros only after the Andal Invasion. After the Old Gods were forced from the South and the Children put to the sword. Now, up here, with the last memory of the Children, is all that’s left of magic south of the Wall.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open, and Myrcella giggled.

“Surprised the daughter of the drunk King Robert and the bitch Queen Cersei could be so deep?”

“No! Of course not!” Jon exclaimed.

Myrcella smiled softly at him, “It’s not a problem. Most people only see the façade, the image of the beautiful princess at the high table. No one thinks to look past it. To see that I’m my own person too.” Jon bit down the bile that rose up into his throat.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to say that you weren’t your own person. I was surprised because Southerners are more like to look down on me and mine. I’ve lost count of the number of visiting lords or merchants whispering about me and my family as heathens and tree worshipers. I apologise…”

A raven cawed in the Weirwood, before taking flight from its tallest branches.

"It's alright. You're all cute when you're flustered," Myrcella said with a smirk. Jon gasped, “You were…”

“Ahhhk!” The raven's cry interrupted Jon's sentence, followed by the sound of a very human voice, making a very non-human squawk. Jon and Myrcella launched to their feet, spinning around, and watched as Arya fell out of a nearby tree, landing in a pile of leaves.

“Ow,” she muttered, before sitting upright and spitting a leaf out of her mouth.

“Arya!!” Jon exclaimed, shaking his head as he and Myrcella laughed. Ghost ran up to her and started rolling in the leaves.

“Jon! You liar! You said you were meeting the Princess’s handmaiden! Not the actual princess!” Arya grumbled, pulling herself out of the leaves.

“Would you have believed me? And besides, it’s supposed to be a secret!” Jon said.

Arya huffed, before stalking over to them and sitting down and scratching Ghost behind the ears.

“I would’ve kept a secret. I’m good at keeping secrets. Mother doesn’t know that you and Robb have been secretly training me with a sword, does she?!”

"He's been training you?" Myrcella asked, though her eyes – shining with pride – were on Jon as she said it. Jon blushed bright red as Arya began serenading Myrcella on her late-night sojourns to the kitchens and the Broken Tower to steal food or train with Jon and Robb.

“I may not be the best swordsmen, but nobody else will teach her,” Jon said, trying to dull down Arya’s praise.

“They should teach us,” Arya said, folding her arms, “We have just as much right to learn as you do.”

“You’re right. We should be able to do whatever we want. But we can’t, and that’s something we have no choice but to live with. To do what we can, with what we have.”

Arya was now looking up to Myrcella in pure adoration and awe. A spell that was broken when a scream echoed through the Godswood. The trio, with Ghost at their heels. Raced towards the source of the scream, eventually arriving at the foot of the Broken Tower, where a crowd had gathered. They pushed to the front, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat as Myrcella grabbed his hand and squeezed. Bran was lying sprawled on the ground, Lady Stark and Maester Lewin beside him.

* * *

In the weeks after Bran’s fall, Jon spent as much time with Myrcella as he could. They would sit together in the Glass Gardens, play with Ghost in the Godswood, Jon even took her out riding to show her Winter Town and the Wolfswood. He loved just being with her. Her smile was enough to drive any depressing thought out of his head, her laugh better than any bird song. She was the only thing that kept his mind off Bran, and Jon knew she understood that despite them never actually talking about it. Jon had pulled Arya aside and made her swear not to tell anyone about Myrcella, and after he explained precisely why it was so important, she agreed not to tell anyone, even Robb. She may not have understood why he felt it was so important, but he did, and that was enough for her.

He and Myrcella had spent hours talking about their hopes and dreams. She had confided in him about her fear of being married off to some old man for an essential piece of land or to secure an alliance. She hated the idea of having to spend her entire life pent up in a castle catering to the whims of a husband. She wanted to continue her research into the flora and fauna of the world. She even admitted she’d given serious thought to having Rosamund take her place permanently so she could run away to Oldtown, buy a house and garden of her own. Maybe even start an animal sanctuary if she had the means. Jon had been awed by it and told her to go through with her dream. "To hell with castles", he had said, "do what you want to do."

He, on the other hand, had no real dreams. What could he possibly do? Besides going to the Nights Watch. When he’d said as such to her, she’d slapped him across the face.

“No. You can’t go to the Night’s Watch. I won’t let you. I’ll have you made a sworn shield to Joffrey before I let that happen. You are not allowed to go and waste away at the Wall.”

“Where else could I go?” He’d asked.

“Stay here. Your brother will surely let you even if Lady Catelyn won't, and his opinion matters more than hers. You could become a master of arms one day. Or you could go south; try and make a name for yourself. You could go east, join a sell-sword company. You could even come to Kings Landing, become my sworn sword.” Jon had found he immensely liked the idea of becoming a sworn sword to Myrcella. So much so that he’d even asked his father if he might come south with the Royal procession. But as soon as he asked, he knew it was a mistake. Jon had seen the brief flash of panic that crossed Lord Stark’s face. Few would have noticed, but it was there. He had steadfastly refused to let Jon come South to Kings Landing with them, saying it wasn’t right for a bastard to be so close to the King. Jon hadn’t wanted to tell Myrcella he wasn’t allowed to leave, but as the day of the royal departure grew nearer, he found himself sitting on the outer walls, legs dangling over the side as he stared out at the sunset, Myrcella sitting beside him.

* * *

# Myrcella II

Myrcella sat down on the edge of Winterfell’s outer wall, back leaning against a stone crenulation. Jon was sitting opposite her, struggling to keep a look of defeat off his face.

“What’s wrong?” She asked him, reaching out for his hand. Jon sighed.

“I spoke to my father. He won’t let me come South with you.” Myrcella’s heart plummeted. He’d been so excited when she suggested he come South with them. Honestly, she hadn't been thinking just of him when she suggested it. If he came south, he could become a Knight. Then maybe she could get him to swear himself to her service. That way, he could have a life, a future, and she wouldn't have to give up the man she’d come to care for. She’d have someone she knew she could count on to watch her back, unlike the guards who were simply paid to do it. And if she did decide to make her switch with Rosamund permanent, he could come with her into hiding. They could make a future together. She and Rosamund had talked about it the previous night. She’d brought up her dream with her before, and Rosamund had been nothing if not supportive. In fact, for her, it was perfect. Rosamund knew her father, who cared for her even less than Myrcella’s own did for her, was planning to betroth her to the fifty-year-old dock master to get a better trade deal in Lannisport. If Myrcella did decide to vanish, Rosamund could take her place, and escape her betrothal. It was a win-win. But now her plan was falling apart, but she felt worse for Jon and Rosamund than she did for herself. If it did fall apart, she would still be a Princess. It would be Jon and Rosamund who suffered.

“Did he say why?” She asked, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

“He said it was because he couldn’t have a bastard in the Red Keep,” Jon said, his demeanour so defeated it nearly broke her.

“That doesn’t sound right. There are plenty of bastards in the Red Keep. I know my father would take you, he loves your father. He’d do anything for him.”

“I don’t know. That’s what he said,” Jon told her.

Myrcella bit her lip, “Could he be lying?” Jon’s head snapped up to hers.

"Father never lies. He's never said a single lie in his entire life. He says that lying is a blemish on one's honour."

Myrcella huffed. “Northerners and your bloody honour,” she muttered.

“You could always come down anyway,” she said, “after he’s gone. Just leave in the night. Come to Kings Landing on your own and send me a message when you get there. I can sneak out, and we can disappear. Your father never needs to know."

“Maybe… but, even if he is lying, what if it’s for a good reason?” Myrcella frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Jon ran a hand through his hair and turned his gaze back to the horizon, “I mean what if Lord Stark fears my going south for some reason, and that’s why he won’t let me. It’s like you said. There are plenty of bastards in Kings Landing, I wouldn’t be the only one. Sure, the Queen wouldn’t be too thrilled, but the King wouldn’t care. I think he has to have another reason. One he’s keeping secret. They say Eddard Stark doesn’t lie, but he sure does keep secrets.”

Myrcella dropped her head onto his shoulder, and Jon began running his spare hand through her hair.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said eventually.

“Me too.” Then, as she watched the sun reflect on his face, she had an idea. Whether it was good or bad or incredibly stupid, she didn't care. If she were going to do it, she'd rather it was with him than some fat lord. Rather he had something to remember her by forever. She squeezed his hand and pulled him to his feet.

“What… Where are we going?” He exclaimed as she pulled him along the wall and down the stairs to the courtyard.

“Your chambers. There’s something I want to show you.”

Hidden beneath the hood of her cloak, Myrcella let Jon lead her through Winterfell’s various passageways and staircases, being extra-careful not to be noticed. They managed to reach Jon’s rooms without incident, and after Jon closed the door, Myrcella drew the lock bolt.

“Cella, what are you…” She pushed her hood back from her golden locks, and before he could finish, she was kissing him. It was hot, full of lust and desire. And it was _glorious_. Jon reciprocated in kind for a few blissful seconds, Myrcella’s knees trembling. Then realised what he was doing, and jerked away so fast he tripped over his bed, falling onto the mattress with a thud. Myrcella giggled softly, then pounced atop him, pinning his arms above his head.

“Myrcella… Princess… we can’t… you can’t…”

“Shhh,” she murmured in his ear, then in her best breathy voice, she whispered, “Yes Jon Snow. I’m your princess. You do as I command. Understood?” Positioned as she was on top of him, she could _feel_ his hardness forming against her thigh in response.

“Myrcella,” he said again, trying to push her free. But his position was awkward, and despite his superior strength, she was able to hold on, biting his neck.

“We cannot do this. I… gods know I want to… but we can’t. You’re a princess. I’m a _bastard_.” She sat up and slapped him across the face.

“I don’t want to hear that word from you again Jon. I don’t care what you were born. What I do care about, is you. Only _you._ Right now, I’m going to convince you that you can be loved. That you’re worth loving. Because I love you, and I’m going to give you, right here and right now, the greatest gift I have to give. And if that isn’t proof enough, then you’re lost.”

She leaned back down and kissed him again. This time softly, savouring the taste of him, his breath on her nose. He returned it, passion flooding into her. Mewling, she let her lips slip open, and his tongue dove into her mouth, drinking at her for all he could.

Eventually, without breath, they parted, faces hovering inches from one another.

“I love you,” Jon whispered back to her. “I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.” His pupils were blown wide, breath coming in ragged gasps. She nuzzled his nose for a moment, her hair enveloping them like a waterfall, then she sat up. She removed her cloak, then pulled her maid’s dress over her head, leaving her only in a thin white shift. Her nipples, already hard, rubbed against the fabric, and Myrcella could feel a drip of juice from her womanhood sliding down her leg. Jon pulled his shirt off, and Myrcella, fingers trembling with adrenaline, took to untying his breaches. She eventually got them down as he shed his shirt, leaving him bare. His manhood was… _thick_. Yes, that was the best word to describe it. Hard and covered in prominent blue and purple veins, it stood proudly, digging into her thigh. All it would take was one shift to bring it to the throbbing heat between her thighs.

Jon noticed her staring, and blushed. “We don’t have to… we can stop…” he stuttered, but Myrcella shushed him. Then, steadying her hands, she pulled away her shift, exposing herself completely to him.

She was proud of her breasts. They certainly weren’t as… _voluptuous…_ as the whores her father frequently entertained, but they were more shaped than her mothers were. Myrcella had seen, on more than one occasion, her mother’s bare breasts, and had frequently heard her whinging about how they were inconvenient and got in the way of everything. Myrcella disagreed. She liked her breasts. Liked how they made her feel feminine, and desirably. Myrcella’s breasts were about the same size as her mothers, but while Cersei’s were fuller, with nipples pointed outwards, her’s were more defined, forming almost perfect bell shapes.

Judging by the look of awe on Jon’s face, they certainly pleased him. He reached out hesitantly, and cupped them with his hands, sending a shock of heat through her chest towards that place between her thighs, which was growing wetter and wetter by the second.

“They’re so _soft,_ ” he whispered to himself, a touch awed, and Myrcella couldn’t help the blush that crept up over her cheeks. He flicked a thumb across her hardened nipples, circling the areola and eliciting a soft moan from her. Hesitantly, he began to palm them, massaging them with his fingers while grinding his palms against them. Myrcella threw her head back and ran her fingers through his hair, feeling his curls run between her red lacquered nails. More and more shocks, like lightning, shot through her, pooling into her heat, and, unable to resist any longer, she began to roll her hips. She achieved what she wanted within a moment, and she felt, with a glistening intensity, as his rock-hard length slid against her folds for the first time.

In sync, they both hissed through their teeth as Myrcella’s body jerked involuntarily, creating even more friction between the two. His tip brushed against her nub, and Myrcella couldn’t help releasing a throaty whine. Jon grunted, taking several long breaths as he pulled his hands away from her chest, placing them on her hips – though whether it was to steady her or him she wasn’t sure. Nor did she particularly care in that moment.

Myrcella and Jon locked eyes.

Myrcella was not ashamed to admit she’d done some _exploring_ of her body in private. Having a very lurid father meant it was impossible to not know certain things such as lingo or positionings, and it had forced her into understanding the nature of sex as an act of pleasure at an early age. Fortunately, the Kingsguard made sure she never walked in on her father in the act, but the fact that he seemed to put so much emphasis on sex, had caused her to become incredibly curious about the idea of it. She had given herself her first orgasm at the age of nine – mostly by accident. That being said, as she grew up, she came to see her father’s salacious acts in a different light – as insults to her mother. She also, if somewhat naively, associated Robert’s increased use of whores with his decrease in care for her or her siblings. As a result, at the age of twelve, she had forced herself to stop masturbating, in an effort to stop herself from following a similar path. Deep down, she knew it was a stupid notion, but she had held to it and – though there had been a few relapses – she had almost entirely refrained from pleasuring herself for close on three years.

Now, all that pent-up lust was finally being sated, and her body’s cravings took hold, pushing her on. Her core was _throbbing_ , pulsing with need for the man between her legs. For Jon.

Myrcella and Jon locked eyes, and she smiled her most seductive smile. She must be a sight. Hair all over the place. Cheeks flushed, nipples erect, breasts heaving, thighs glistening with her juices. She wrapped her right hand around his girth, and it jumped in her hand, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest. Her thumb slid across the tip, feeling the transparent pre-cum that covered the top, and she guided him towards her pink, puffy folds. She pressed the head against her, and the throbbing turned to an ache as her body _screamed_ at her to seek that blissful release. She kept her gaze on his eyes, and murmured, so quiet that even she could barely hear herself, “Have you…?”

“No,” he replied, in the same silent, breathless tone.

“Together.” She pressed her hips down, using her hand to carefully guide him, and the head pushed into her. Jon gasped, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and Myrcella’s body shuddered. She kept going, sinking further and further, inch by inch, as her nethers took him deeper and deeper. She mewled in bliss as her walls clenched and rippled around his thickness, trembling as that throbbing need was finally met.

There was… discomfort, in a way. She trembled as he stretched her, delving deep into her body in ways her fingers had never been able to, but there was no real pain or violent sharp tug that she had feared might happen with the loss of her maidenhead. So, she continued, and even the discomfort soon gave way to waves and waves of radiant pleasure. Within moments he was sheathed within her completely, and she couldn’t help but sigh at how utterly complete she felt.

“Can… can I?” he muttered breathlessly. In response, she leaned forward, and kissed him, sucking his lip into her mouth. He slowly began to edge himself out of her, and she whimpered into his mouth at the loss of contact, then, in one smooth movement, he slammed back into her. She gasped in shock as a jolt of intense pleasure shot through her body, and she collapsed into his chest, breasts pressing against him, hairs rubbing against her teats. He repeated the process, slamming into her a second, and a third, and a fourth time. One hand went to his hair, gripping to those black curls like a lifeline, the other slipped between their sweat covered forms to the point where his balls slapped against her soft porcelain skin. Her head she buried in his neck, and she moaned into his shoulder to keep from crying out.

Her fingers reached that precious nub, and that was it. Myrcella bit down into Jon’s shoulder to hold in her scream as her walls contracted around his dick.

“Oh hells…” Jon crocked, shoving himself as deep as Myrcella could take him. And then, as Myrcella’s whole body spasmed in the throes of utter bliss, he _twitched_ deep within her molten core. It was the single most glorious feeling she’d ever felt. His dick, already trapped deep within her heat, flicked upwards just slightly, tugging on her, rubbing in just the right spot to send her over the edge again. This time she couldn’t help the scream that slipped from her lips.

“JON!” Her hips jolted forward, pushing him deeper than ever before, and he let out a giant breath as sparks of pure pleasure shot through Myrcella’s entire body. He blasted his seed into her sacred place, painting the walls of her womb white with his essence. And _oh gods_ she had never felt so full, so at peace, so happy, as she did in that moment.

They slumped together, completely exhausted, breathing heady, hot breaths. She glanced down to the place where they were still joined, and she saw the mess of fluids on his sheets and across their bodies – a mixture of blood from her maidenhead, transparent juices from her core, and creamy white seed, spilling from her heat, which still twitched around his softening length as she recovered.

Myrcella pressed her head into Jon’s chest, and whispered softly, “I love you, Jon. Do you believe me now?”

“I do,” he groaned, his dick twitching one last time as it released the last of him into her, “Gods know I do.”

Contented, Myrcella placed a hand on her belly, and sighed as she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of little girls with black and golden hair.


	2. Volume II

#  **_Volume II_ **

* * *

# Tyrion I

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Tyrion jerked awake to the sound of someone knocking on his door, he hastily pulled his breeches on, and hurried to the door, opening it to reveal Myrcella on the other side. His niece had not slept well. There were dark shadows under her eyes, her hair was a rats nest, she was twiddling her fingers, biting her lip and chewing a lock of hair in her mouth. 

Tyrion opened the door without hesitation, letting her rush inside. She grabbed the door from him and slammed it closed, pulling all the deadbolts before moving to the windows and closing all the curtains. He had a bad feeling about this.

Tyrion had been watching Myrcella in the two months since they’d left Winterfell. At first, she’d been over the moon. She always had a goofy grin on her face, and she kept to whispering to Rosamund in hushed tones, giggling all the while. Tyrion, being the incredibly intelligent person that he was, deduced that something had happened on the last few days of their stay in the North. Perhaps something to do with Ned Stark’s bastard? He’d seen the two of them flitting around the castle together. Sitting on the battlements, hiding in the Godswood, even riding out to the town at one point. In fact, now that he thought about it, Myrcella and Rosamund had spent almost the entire trip switched places.

It had only been after they returned to the Red Keep a little over a month later that Myrcella’s smile had vanished. Instead replaced by a look of thoughtfulness and slight angst. She had taken to walking around her garden, giving extra time to tending a new bush of Winter Roses she must have acquired in the North.

But now, she looked horrible.

“Myrcella, what’s happened?” He asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down in it. Myrcella turned towards him as she closed the last curtain, before slumping down into a chair opposite him. Tyrion reached for the jug of wine he kept on his table and poured himself a glass. 

“Isn’t it a bit early for drinking?” She asked, attempting a laugh.

“It’s never too early for drinking,” Tyrion told her, before taking a drink.

“Well, I guess there’s no point in glossing over it. I haven’t had my moon blood in two months.” She said it so casually. The same way one might describe the weather, but her eyes screamed how terrified she was. Desperate for a good reaction from him.

Tyrion choked on his wine.

After several minutes of hacking and spluttering, Tyrion managed to regain his composure enough to say, “Are you sure?”

A tear ran down Myrcella’s cheek, “I’m sure. I thought at first that it just wasn’t regular. I struggled with it when I first had my blood. Mother was no help on that account.” Tyrion once again silently cursed Cersei and her inability to feel genuine emotion, before gesturing for her to continue.

“Then, I started feeling sick in the mornings. Rosamund’s been helping me. Sneaking buckets out of my quarters, changing my sheets, that sort of thing. Now it’s been two months, and I’m certain. I’m pregnant.” Myrcella’s head dropped into her hands, and she began to sob. Tyrion pulled his chair around, so he sat beside her and offered what comfort he could. 

“Who is the father?” He asked softly. He thought he knew the answer, but had to be sure. Myrcella tilted her head towards him, and Tyrion almost gasped at the soft smile that traced its way onto her face. Oh, the poor girl. It was the same smile Cersei used to get when Jaime walked into a room. Before she married Robert and became the spiteful bitch, she was now. She was in love.

“Jon Snow,” she said, letting out a deep breath. Tyrion bit the inside of his lip, but he had to ask.

“Did he force himself…”

“NO!” Myrcella exclaimed, “No! Definitely not. If anyone’s to blame it’s me. I seduced him, he tried to stop me.” Myrcella sighed wistfully, “He was nice to me. We ran into each other by accident, and then his Direwolf liked me, and I asked him to show me the gardens, and he gave me a rose, and I kissed him and then we kept meeting up. Again and again and again. We even made a plan. He was going to come South. Be my sworn sword. But Lord Stark wouldn’t let him come. He was so devastated and I… I just wanted us to have something.” Tyrion began rubbing circles into her back, a smile of his own forming on his face as he recalled his personal interactions with Ned Stark’s bastard.

“It was you,” he said simply.

“What was me?”

“You’re the one that convinced him not to join the Night’s Watch.”

Myrcella’s smile grew even broader, “I slapped him. Told him I’d have him named to Joffrey’s Kingsguard before I let him go to waste his life at the Wall.” Then her smile faltered once more.

“What am I going to do? I’ll start showing soon.” Tyrion sat silently for a few moments before gathering his thoughts together. Cersei really would kill him for this one, but he cared more about Myrcella’s life than his head.

“Don’t you worry about it. I have a plan. But first, you need to send a raven to your baby daddy. Let him know he’s going to be a father soon.” Myrcella beamed, rapidly nodding her head. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!!” She exclaimed, before jumping to her feet and running out the door. Tyrion then slumped into his seat and asked himself just what he had done to piss off the Gods so much to deserve his life. 

* * *

# Jon II

“Jon,” Maester Lewin called as he stepped into the training yard at Winterfell. Jon and Robb both lowered their weapons and turned towards the Maester, who was shuffling towards them, a raven scroll in hand. “A letter for you. From Kings Landing.” Jon laughed.

“Must be Arya again,” he said, taking the scroll. Arya had sent him at least two letters every week, fuming about something or another on their trip south once they reached the Capital. He and Robb had been outraged at hearing what happened to Nymeria and Lady but knew there was nothing they could do about it. He took the scroll and unrolled it. Then he saw the name at the bottom and almost dropped it in the dirt from shock. _Myrcella._

His eyes jumped to the top of the page, and he began to read through. Once. Twice. Three times as the message started to sink in. 

_Jon,_

_You know that thing we did, just before I left? Well, that’s going to have a long-term consequence we didn’t consider. I need you here. As soon as you can. I won’t be able to hide for very long. I’m sorry._

_Love, Cella._

Jon, without thinking about Robb and Theon or Lewin, took off in the direction of his chambers. There was only one thought in his head. He had to get south. He had to go to her. He didn’t stop to think that he’d done the very thing he’d always sworn he’d never do. Father a bastard. But right now, he found he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to her.

He reached his chambers and locked the door before he started throwing things in a set of saddlebags he owned. Clothes, the few valuables he owned, all the coin he’d collected over the years. It wasn’t much. Jon bit his lip and opened the door. The hallway was bereft of guards, so he crossed the corridor and into Robb’s room. It was wrong, and he’d never even considered doing it before now, but times changed, and Robb could get more coin from his mother and father. So Jon stepped over to the dresser and took Robb’s own collection of coins. It was a fair bit bigger than Jon’s. He crossed back to his room and finished his packing. He removed the sheets from his bed, ensured his furs were all in good condition, and that his sword was nice and honed. Then he went to the kitchens and asked one of the cooks who liked him to prepare a set of travelling rations. 

By the time everything was ready, night had fallen. If he was going to leave, now was the time. He penned a quick note to Robb, threw on his travelling cloak, and closed the door. He walked the length of Winterfell, Ghost at his heels, making sure to take in the entire castle one last time. He wished he could say goodbye to Bran, but Lady Stark wouldn’t let him out of her sight, even if he were awake. Though he intended to head to the stables for his horse, he ended up in the Godswood, staring at the weeping face of the Weirwood Tree. He ran his hand over the bark, and couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. This was where he met her, and he’d remember that moment till the day he died. Even if he never saw it again. 

That’s where Robb found him.

“Jon! What in the seven hells are you doing?! You’re room looks like someone’s torn the place apart!” His brother stopped short a few paces behind him, no doubt noticing the pack.

“What was in that letter? Is it Arya?”

“No,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I… Robb, when the King was in Winterfell… I met a girl.”

“You told me that already,” Robb said, stepping forward and placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “She was one of the princess’s maids…”

“I lied,” Jon said sharply, sharper than he intended at least. “She wasn’t a maid… she was the Princess.”

Robb was silent for several long moments before finally speaking again.

“Damn brother. You set high standards, don’t you? A princess… do you know how hard it’s going to be to top that?”

They both broke into raucous laughter, and Jon turned away from the Weirwood tree to look his brother in the eye.

“I got her pregnant Robb.” Robb’s laughter vanished in a second, face warping into an image of shock. Then his face split into another grin.

“Then what are you still doing here?”

Robb held out his hand, and Jon grabbed it at the elbow. Then they pulled together into a firm hug.

“You know if you ever need help, all you have to do is send a raven.”

“I know.”

They separated and turned towards the stables.

“Say goodbye to Bran for me,” Jon said.

“I will, and you give my best to father and Arya and Sansa. We’ll see each other again. I know it.”

Then Robb slapped him on the back and retreated into the castle. Jon continued to the stable, where he saddled a horse and released Ghost. Then he left Winterfell, and he didn’t once look back.

* * *

# Myrcella III

“Is he decent?” Myrcella asked as she approached the doors to her father’s solar. The Kingsguard on duty nodded and opened the door. She slipped inside with all the grace of a princess and set eyes on her father.

He was sitting on an ottoman, looking out over the city from his balcony. An empty wine glass was discarded on the floor across from him.

“Father?” Myrcella called, approaching warily. You never knew if King Robert would become violent or docile when drunk, though today it seemed the latter.

The King turned towards her, and his expression softened.

“Ah! Cella! To what do I owe this visit?”

“Are you busy? I can come back another time…”

“Pah! I’m never busy. Benefits of being King. You just make everyone else do the things you don’t want to!”

That was not how being King should work. Not in the slightest.

Still, she sat down beside her father on the ottoman, keeping her dresses carefully away from his girth.

“What did you need?”

Myrcella didn’t answer immediately. She wasn’t sure what she was about to admit was a good idea. Drunk and pathetic King that he was… he was still her father, and that counted for something. He was a kind man. At least, he had been when she was little, and he’d still cared. Before the weight of a crown he wasn’t meant for had destroyed him. Uncle Jaime was gone, and she needed to tell someone. Someone who wouldn’t look down on her in shame, or try and lock her in a cell.

“I’m pregnant.”

Robert looked at her for a few seconds, eyes flitting between her face and belly.

“Well, nice job,” he said gruffly, “Was he decent at least?”

She stared at him in admonishment for a few moments, before he winked and they both burst out laughing.

“Yes. Yes, he was more than decent.”

“Ha! Good for you! A princess with a bastard in her belly,” he exclaimed as he chuckled, “Has your mother gotten to the poor sop yet?”

“She doesn’t know. And never will.” Robert nodded, still smiling.

“Probably the only way he’ll get to keep his balls.”

They laughed again until she spoke up.

“I’m leaving tonight,” she said, “my handmaiden, Rosamund, will be taking my place.”

Robert frowned. “The one that sometimes has me wondering which of you is mine?”

“That’s the one.” He nodded again.

“Should work well enough then. Cersei has her head stuck so far up her ass you could replace _me_ and she probably wouldn’t notice.”

They sat in silence once more, watching as the sun inched towards the horizon.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about what happens after I get put in the ground.”

Myrcella looked up at her father, raising an eyebrow in question. That… was not what she’d been expecting to hear.

“Joffrey… well the less said about that buffoon, the better.”

Myrcella rolled her eyes. Yes, the less said about her pathetic excuse for a brother…

“Jon Arryn’s death. How sudden it was, it just got me thinking. Who would be the best person to take over if something like that happened to me?”

Myrcella’s jaw fell open, but Robert said no more. He simply stared out into the sunlight, his meaning clear. Myrcella felt a swell of pride bloom inside her, and it had nothing to do with the babe growing in her womb. It could never have happened. Not in this world where women were nothing, but… it was nice to know.

She stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Goodbye, father,” she said. He turned to her and raised a hand in farewell.

“Have a better life than I did, kid. Hold onto that boy of yours… and _never_ let him go.”

“I promise.”

Then she turned on her heel and left the solar, so he wouldn’t see the tears that welled up in her eyes.

* * *

# Arya I

Arya had sworn a personal oath that she would keep an eye on the Princess. She didn’t truly understand what was going on between Jon and Myrcella, but she knew it was something special, and she could tell Jon really cared about her. How could she tell? Because Jon gave the golden-haired girl the same smiles he used to reserve only for her. But oddly enough, she didn’t mind. She was just happy that Jon had found someone besides her and Robb that genuinely cared for him. And from what Arya could see, Myrcella really did care for Jon. 

So, Arya made it her job to keep watch on the Princess. To spend time with her when she could. She even went so far as to help her tend her garden, which Arya had to admit – despite the fact she really didn’t like flowers – was quite beautiful. The first time Myrcella asked them to come with her to tend the garden, both Arya and Sansa had known it wasn’t a request. Sansa had been scandalised when Myrcella had actually knelt down in the dirt, getting her dress caked in mud, to re-pot a wilting bush of something with yellow flowers Arya couldn’t name. And when the King’s daughter asked for some help moving the plant with her bare hands, which was still dripping dirt all over the flagstones, Sansa had looked so horrified Arya worried she might faint. Arya didn’t care in the slightest about dirt, however, so quickly grabbed the other side of the plant and helped her move it a few beds over to where Myrcella said the better soil was. It looked the same to her, but Myrcella seemed to know more about it than she did, so who was she to judge. Sansa had not come to Myrcella’s garden again, but Arya had, and she found she enjoyed their time together. Not as much as she enjoyed her time with Syrio, but still. The Princess, for reasons beyond Arya’s understanding, had wanted to know more about the North. About its history, its culture and its religion. Arya had been over the moon, even more so than when she first learned about Jon’s secret meeting with the Princess, that Myrcella was as eager to know about history as she was. In turn for stories of Brandon the Builder, Cregan Stark and Kings Beyond the Wall, Myrcella had told her stories of the Targaryen Kings and Queens, of Lann the Clever and Jenny of Oldstones.

That was why Arya was the first person to notice when Myrcella started wearing different clothes. It was gradual, certainly not straight away, but Arya had learned that Myrcella was not one to care much about having up to date fashion, as her work in the gardens attested too. But ever so slowly, the Princess swapped out her entire wardrobe, and the replacements all had one thing in common. They were far less form-fitting. They hung looser near her stomach and waste and were slightly more abundant around the breasts. It was only two weeks after the complete change that Arya figured it out. It was the food that did it. Myrcella, who greatly enjoyed sweets even if she ate in far greater moderation than Sansa did, simply stopped eating them entirely. Arya may not have been very old when Rickon was born, but she remembered how annoyed she was at her mother because she kept eating Arya’s favourite fruits – sweet juicy oranges from the South. The only thing Arya even liked from the South. She also remembered asking Sansa about it, and she said that their mother had odd food cravings whenever she was pregnant and that they happened to be different with both Bran and Rickon, the two pregnancies she remembered. She’d talked to Jon then, because she didn’t trust Sansa, and he’d said that it was the truth, though apparently, Lady Stark hadn’t had any craving with her. So, between the less fitting dresses, the change in food, and the vivid and horrifying recollection of Jon and Robb’s talk to her about the ‘birds and bees’ that still gave her nightmares, Arya came to a conclusion that even Lord Varys would have been proud of.

“Is it Jon’s?” She asked Myrcella point-blank while tending to the Winter Roses and there were no guards around. All the colour drained from Myrcella’s face, and her hands began shaking.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” Arya told her, standing as tall as she could to seem like her father – the most trustworthy person she knew. 

Myrcella let out a shaky breath and scanned the gardens for any guards. There was only the Kingsguard – Sir Barristan – waiting at the entrance. Myrcella never let any guards accompany her into her garden.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said.

“Obviously,” Arya said, rolling her eyes, “But it is Jon’s, right?” Myrcella’s face broke into a goofy grin, eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

“It is,” she confirmed sheepishly.

“Do you know which one it’ll be?” Arya asked eagerly, bouncing on her toes.

“Which one?”

“You know, boy or girl.”

Myrcella laughed, “Oh. No, I’m not sure. They say it’s supposed to be mother’s intuition and all that, but I don’t have a clue. Maybe you don’t know until later, I can’t exactly go to Grand Maester Pycelle and ask, can I?”

Arya shivered, “I wouldn’t go near that man if my leg fell off.”

“Me neither,” Myrcella quickly agreed.

“What are you going to do?” Arya asked, casting another glance at Sir Barristan, “I think your mother might be even worse than mine, especially if you’re going to mother a you-know-what.”

Myrcella sighed, tugging on her hair, “I’m going to leave. Soon. As soon as Jon gets here. I’ll start showing in less than a moon’s turn. If I’m not gone by then…”

“The Queen will probably have every Stark south of the Wall murdered,” Arya finished, “like Micah.”

Myrcella’s face fell, “We never talked about it, but I’m really sorry about that. My mother and brother are assholes.”

“I know. I don’t blame you. It’s Joffrey, Cersei and Sansa’s fault,” she grumbled. Then she froze, “Jon’s coming here?!”

Myrcella nodded. “He’s meeting me here, then Uncle Tyrion is going to smuggle us to Bravos. He’s given us a fair bit of money and convinced an old drinking buddy of his who has a friend in the city to sell us a house to stay in. It’s not the fate I’d envisioned, but I’ll be able to start my own garden, maybe even expand to caring for animals and the like. And Jon won’t be going to the Wall.” Arya smiled slightly. On the one hand, Jon wouldn’t be going to the Wall like their Uncle Benjen, who they didn’t see for years at a time. On the other, she might never see either of them again.

“Rosamund will take my identity permanently. At least she’ll get out of marrying that old man in Lannisport.” Then Myrcella turned to Arya and pulled her into a hug. Arya stiffened at first, but quickly relented, arms coming around the taller blonde girl.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You just take care of Jon, alright?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good,” Arya said, squeezing Myrcella tighter.

“You know if you ever need help, come and find us. We’ll help you, no matter what happens, alright?”

Arya nodded, desperately trying to keep the tears in her eyes.

* * *

A week later, Arya found herself standing on a dockside in Kings Landing in the early hours of the morning next to Tyrion Lannister, Myrcella Baratheon, Jon Snow and Ghost.

“I’ve gotten it in my head to visit the Wall you see,” Tyrion was saying. “This ship will be sailing me up there, with a stop in Bravos, and I’ll return South on horseback. I’ve designed a saddle to give to your brother Bran that’ll allow him to ride despite his legs. It’ll give me an excuse to pass through Winterfell and let your brother Robb know you’re alright.”

“Thank you for all your help, Lord Tyrion, truly,” Jon said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Just take care of my niece,” Tyrion replied.

“I swear it,” Jon said stoically.

“Good man.” Before Jon could turn around, Arya jumped at him, clinging to him with the strongest hug she could muster. A hug Jon returned with equal fervour.

“Goodbye,” She whispered in his ear.

“We’ll see each other again, I know it,” he said, his voice cracking. She slid back down to the ground, and Jon ruffled her hair one last time.

“You keep that Needle of yours sharp all right?”

Arya wrapped her hand around her sword hilt, the one he’d given her before she left Winterfell, and couldn’t resist the tears that began to form in her eyes. A bell began to toll around the harbour.

“Boys, prepare to cast off!” The captain bellowed from aboard the ship.

“Time to go,” Tyrion said, before waddling up onto the deck. Jon took Myrcella’s hand, and together they followed the dwarf up the gangplank, Ghost trailing behind them. And as the ship pulled away, Arya remained on the dock, tears sliding down her face, watching as the ship carrying her favourite brother, her new friend, and her unborn nephew or niece sailed away. 

* * *

# Myrcella IV

Myrcella and Jon were standing around the creek, tending to the willow grove when he stumbled back suddenly. He jerked upright, bracing his hand against a tree before his eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites.

“Jon!” She exclaimed, rushing to his side as well as she was able. Eight and a half months pregnant and Myrcella was struggling to do just about everything. She shook his shoulders slightly, panicking. He hadn’t fallen to the ground, nor was he shaking, he was simply rigid. She shook him and pleaded again, and the baby kicked her stomach, sending her bladder for a swim. Jon snapped out of his trance, and his gaze instantly flew north. 

“Arya…” he whispered, before bolting towards the house on the hill.

“Jon!”

The house they were living in was not the one Uncle Tyrion had organised for them. By the time they arrived in Bravos, their host had been murdered in a drunken brawl. He wasn’t rich by any means, but he did have some property and no heir to pass it onto. So Myrcella did something her Uncle Tyrion would be proud of. She’d used the sealed scroll Tyrion had given her with the homeowner’s signature on it as proof that the man had sold his main property on the south side of Bravos to her and Jon before he died. It was a bald-faced lie, but it had just enough truth and the man’s signature to back it up, that the people responsible for splitting his wares believed it. Now, she and Jon were the proud owners of a large house and the surrounding area, which was more than enough space to set up her new garden. They’d adopted several stray dogs from the animal shelter two months in, partly so they wouldn’t be so lonely, partly so Ghost could have some friends. After the baby was born and everything settled down a bit, they’d talked about getting into horses as well. Jon was also keeping up his training with their next-door neighbour, whose sons all had some skill with a blade.

By the time she reached the house, Jon was long gone. Ghost was also nowhere to be seen, though that wasn’t too bizarre, as he often disappeared into Bravos or its surrounding hills to hunt. Many a woodsman was afraid of the Direwolf, which was still continuing to grow at an alarming rate.

Jon and Ghost returned late that night, Jon carrying a small figure close to his chest. A figure Myrcella recognised instantly. 

“Arya!” She cried, helping Jon lower his emaciated sister down onto the lounge.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Ghost was down at the docks. He saw a bunch of dock workers carrying her out of a cargo box. Somehow, I saw it too… they took her to a healing house. That’s where I found her, Ghost standing guard.”

“How’d she even get here. And on her own?”

“Aye. They found her on a ship from Kings Landing.” Jon trailed off, eyes locked on Myrcella’s. She hated to think what might have happened. What could have caused Arya to flee like that? She didn’t like the possible answers.

* * *

**2 weeks later…**

“Come on m’ lady. Just keep pushing!! You’re doing great!!!” Myrcella screamed in agony as the nurses kept calling to her, telling her how well she was doing. Myrcella just wanted them to shut the fuck up and let her concentrate. 

“It’s crowning!!!” The nurse exclaimed, “one more push!! Just one more!!” Myrcella thought the command to push was incredibly inaccurate to what she was trying to do, but she followed the direction anyway, forcing all her will power into the body trying to emerge from between her legs

Then the pressure vanished, replaced by the soft whimpers of a tiny voice.

“Congratulations mam, it’s a girl.” The nurse stepped up to Myrcella, who was still heavy breathing and placed a bundle wrapped in grey cloth in her arms. She was tiny, with short tufts of blonde hair and gorgeous pink lips. The small thing yawned, wrapping a hand around one of Myrcella’s fingers, and she fell in love. 

The nurse stepped away, and Jon slipped into the room, racing to her side.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Myrcella whispered, still staring at the baby in her arms.

“What…” Jon swallowed hard, “what should we call her?” Myrcella already knew exactly what she wanted to call her. She’d picked a girl’s name a long time ago.

“Arya. Little Arya Snow.”

* * *

**One month later…**

Myrcella stood on the porch of their home, her daughter clutched close to her chest. Arya was, thankfully, an easy baby so far. She was quiet but strong and healthy, and she was gorgeous. Myrcella understood now what her mother had told her long ago. _“You will never love anything as much as you love your children.”_ Myrcella loved her garden. She loved Jon. But she couldn’t imagine loving anything more than Arya.

Her daughter’s namesake, Arya Stark, lay bedridden inside the building behind her. The infection she’d developed on her trip across the sea had only just run its course, and combined with the atrophy and the malnutrition, she was lucky to be alive. But she was pulling through with an iron will. Myrcella couldn’t think of a better role model for her daughter. 

That was not what had her sitting on the porch, staring out towards the titan dominating the harbour, and the Narrow Sea beyond. That honour would come with the news that had just arrived in Braavos. Her father was dead, and her brother crowned King of Westeros by her mother. Only, if you believed Stannis Baratheon, King Robert hadn’t been Myrcella’s father at all. That honour belonged to her _Uncle_ Jaime. She supposed that meant she was the daughter of the Kingslayer instead of the Drunk King. How far she had fallen.

In all honesty, Myrcella wasn’t sure whether it was true or not. She supposed it could be. Her mother and her uncle had always been close. Very close. And Jaime had always been nice to her. But he’d never shown her any fatherly affection. She could still remember Robert’s kindness when she was a girl. The stories he’d told her. He had loved her. She believed that. He just… he was just easily distracted.

In the end, she still thought of Robert as her father. But what did that matter if the truth was something different. Regardless, she wasn’t a princess anymore. She was a runaway. 

She was a mother. And that was what mattered.

Jon opened the door and slipped outside to sit beside her. Arya stirred on her shoulder, pulling with tiny hands at Myrcella’s shift. She sighed softly, pulling down the slip to expose her teat. Arya wriggled, stretching, and began to feed.

“She’s gorgeous,” Jon whispered, running a hand through Myrcella’s hair.

“How’s Arya?”

“Sleeping. Ghost’s with her. The nurses say the worst is over. What were you thinking about?”

“My father.” He nodded, threading a hand through her free one.

“You’ve barely said anything since we heard. How are you taking it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Well enough, I suppose. If I were still a princess, I probably would have taken it worse. But being here with you, it all seems so far away. I’m not really sure why it matters.”

Jon placed a kiss on her forehead as little Arya continued to suckle at her chest.

“As someone who’ll never know who his mother was, is having two fathers such a bad thing?” Myrcella smiled softly at that. 

“No. I suppose not. Even if one of them was a drunk whoremonger and the other an oath breaker, at least I knew them. At least I knew they both loved me, in their own ways.”

She looked down at little Arya, staring in contentment into her daughter’s peaceful eyes. Violet eyes. They couldn’t explain that.

“It doesn’t matter who sired me. What matters is who I choose to be. And I choose to be Myrcella Waters, daughter of Robert, daughter of Jaime, mother of Arya. And that’s enough. That will always be enough.” 


	3. Volume III

#  _Volume III_

* * *

# Jon III

**One and a half years later…**

Jon Snow sat in silence as the rowboat edged towards a tiny cave in the cliffside of Kings Landing. Above him, the towers of the Red Keep soared into the air, firelight twinkling like stars. From this angle, one could almost forget all the horrors that had taken place in this castle and just embrace its magnificence and beauty.

Almost.

The boat nudged silted sand, and Jon and the bargeman, a man in his middle years with a grizzled beard who’s name Jon hadn’t asked, jumped out and pulled the craft ashore, anchoring it. Once secure, Arya and Ghost jumped free of the boat themselves. Ghost immediately took to sniffing the rocks, whole massive body tense. It had been a miracle they’d managed to find a skiff that could _fit_ the giant Direwolf, or a captain willing to carry him.

Jon turned to the bargeman and fished a bag of coins from beneath his jerkin, handing it to him.

“If we’re not back before sunrise, leave. But be warned, you only get the rest if we make it back and you’re still here.”

The bargeman grunted. “I dun’t right care what you two, euh, _three_ I suppose, are gonna do. Got no love for them Lannister lot. Though I suppose the Imp’s alright. He saved our asses when that Stannis fella showed up.”

“We’re here for our sister. Nothing more, nothing less,” Jon said. Arya looked like she wanted to argue, but held her tongue.

“Good luck ‘en.” Jon nodded his thanks to the man, then, with Arya in front and Ghost behind, they trudged up the shingle beach to a tiny crack in the foundations.

“You found this while you were exploring the dungeons?” He asked. He hadn’t liked this plan when Arya suggested it, and he didn’t like it now. That didn’t mean he had much choice in the matter. He still wished he had more than Arya and Ghost as his support. But this was a stealth mission, the giant white wolf was giveaway enough.

“Yeah. I hated Kings Landing. It’s too hot, too full of stupid people, and it smells horrible.”

Jon huffed. “We can agree on that at least.” It did smell like the world’s worst sewer.

Arya led them deeper into the cleft, revealing a small passage the trio could slip through. Despite the darkness and the tightness of the space, Arya led with expertise, and eventually, they emerged in a giant underground passage full of Dragon skulls, lit by a few low burning torches. 

Jon repressed a shiver at the sight of the monstrous relics.

Arya grabbed one of the torches from its bracket on the wall, the light glinting off Needle in its sheath strapped to her back.

Jon had made a vow to his twelve-year-old sister in Braavos. When she could defeat him in a sword fight, he would go forward with her plan to return to Kings Landing and rescue their father and sister. Arya had arrived to them on death’s door. Malnourished and barely alive. It had taken her a month to even gain strength enough to speak, and by then the news had arrived in Essos of Ned Stark’s execution and the outbreak of the Civil War. Still, as Arya had exercised, with Ghost’s constant company, she had insisted on launching a rescue for Sansa. Jon wanted to save Sansa too. With every fibre of his bones, he did. But there was no way he could infiltrate the Red Keep on his own, or even with some of the friends he’d made in Braavos. Arya’s passage had been the only way, and she needed to be here to show it to them. So Jon had imposed the restriction on her. Beat him in a fight with her Needle. And they could launch their attack.

A month ago, she’d succeeded.

“The tower of the hand is up those stairs,” Arya said, gesturing down the hall, “But Sansa probably isn’t there anymore. I’d wager she’s being held in the Maidenvault.” 

“Agreed,” Jon said. Arya looked at him then, and Jon swallowed. He took a deep breath, then sat down with his back against the cold stone wall. He had spent the past year and a half training for this as well. He closed his eyes and let his mind _slip_ away. When he opened his eyes, he was lower, closer to the floor, and the smell was ten times stronger. Blood was flooding through him, the thrill of a hunt. Jon, in Ghost’s skin, glanced to Arya, who smiled softly at him and gestured with her hand to another set of stairs. He loped forward, silent as the wind, and mounted the stairs three at a time.

Jon prowled through the Red Keep, avoiding patrols of Lannister guards as best he could. Fortunately, he could usually hear or smell them coming. On the few counts he was seen, the shock of a giant white Direwolf prowling through the Red Keep in the middle of the night was usually enough to scare the guards shitless. They either ran, or just froze. By the time they regained their composure, he was gone. Only a phantom in the night. It took longer than he wanted to pick up Sansa’s scent, but he did find it. The door was not heavily guarded – which surprised him slightly – but he wasn’t complaining. After biding Ghost to wait in the shadows, he pulled away from the wolf’s mind, returning to his own body with a start. He groaned, rubbing his forehead as Arya looked at him in concern.

“I found her,” he said.

Together, they took the direct path towards Sansa’s rooms, making far quicker time than Ghost had. They only had to kill two guards that spotted them. Though it still unsettled him how affective a killer his sister had become, Jon had long since given up trying to control Arya. If he had seen his own father get murdered right in front of him, he probably would have had the same reaction.

By the time they reached Sansa’s rooms, Ghost had already killed both of the guards outside, their corpses lying in puddles of blood on the floor. Arya stepped up to the door, uncaring for the blood and gore, and knocked sharply.

“Coming!” came Sansa’s soft reply. Her voice was still Sansa, but there was an edge to it Jon had never heard before. The door creaked open, revealing Sansa in a night-gown, red hair spilling across her shoulders. Her eyes were rimmed red, her face pale and swath. She gasped at the sight of them, reaching for the door frame to steady herself.

“Arya! Jon! I thought you were both dead?!”

“Not yet, not today,” Arya said, pulling Sansa into a fierce hug.

“We need to go, it won’t be long now before the alarm is raised,” Jon hissed, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“What are you doing here?” Sansa hissed, releasing Arya.

“Saving you of course,” Jon replied. Ghost’s ears twitched, and his head shot towards the hallway.

“Crap,” Jon muttered, “time to go.” Sansa hesitated for a brief moment, before swallowing and nodding her head, a steel appearing in her gaze that was so unlike the Sansa he’d known it wasn’t funny.

“Let me grab a cloak,” she said, before turning on the spot and rushing inside. Footsteps began echoing down the hallway, and Arya eased a dagger from her belt as Jon’s grip tightened on his sword. But the person who appeared was not a guard, but a woman. A maid with long curly black hair wearing silks of Kings Landing style. She stopped short, eyes flitting from Ghost to Jon, to Arya’s knife. Then pressed herself against the wall.

“Go quickly, and good luck.” 

Sansa emerged from her rooms wearing a fur cloak of dark colouring and spotted the maid.

“Shae…” she whispered, but the maid just gestured down the hallway.

“Go. I will tell Tyrion that you are okay, but no one else. Flee!” Jon nodded to the woman, and Arya sheathed her knife. Then, Ghost leading the way, the group of four bolted back the way they came. The bells began ringing as they ran for the dungeons, and they encountered three rushing soldiers baring their path.

“You there! Stop in the name of the Ki…” Arya’s dagger slammed into the Lannister soldier’s throat, and he collapsed instantly. Ghost lunged for the man on the left, and Jon drew his own sword and rushed the final man. He was not an excellent swordsman. At least, not compared to Jon, who’d been training non-stop under some of the best instructors Braavos had to offer. 

Ghost ripped the final soldier’s arm off, and Arya sank Needle into his throat to silence him. Sansa… she barely looked phased. How they had all changed in the past few years.

They made it to the dungeons with the Dragon skulls, and quietly slipped through the crack in the wall, Arya replacing the torch they’d stolen. They emerged onto the beach, where the bargeman was waiting for them, a stunned look on his face. Clearly, he hadn’t thought they’d succeed. Jon couldn’t blame him. _He_ hadn’t thought they would succeed.

They boarded the boat, and the bargeman began rowing to the ship anchored offshore. A ship that would leave as soon as they were aboard. 

Sansa sat in the bow, fingers entwined with Ghost’s soft coat, staring back to the Red Keep as the bells tolled in the towers.

“Goodbye,” she whispered. Then she turned to Jon and Arya and gave them a warm smile, and she didn’t look back.

* * *

# Tyrion II

Tyrion stepped into his father’s solar and came face to face with the Old Lion himself. And the expression on his face? It was the same one he’d held when he’d found out Tyrion had married Tysha. Had married a whore.

_‘Well, it’s been a nice existence. I doubt my head will still be adorning my shoulders by the end of the day.’_

“Tell me, honestly and truthfully, right here, right now, that you had nothing to do with Sansa Stark’s escape from this castle.” Tyrion tried his best not to flinch, keeping a mask of confusion as he waddled forward. Tywin did not offer him a chair, so Tyrion took one anyway. Shae had told him of what she’d witnessed the night Sansa Stark had vanished. Two northerners, one barely a man, the other a girl of no more than fifteen, had escorted Sansa willingly away, guarded by a giant white wolf.

Ghost. Jon Snow’s Direwolf, who’d fled across the sea with Tyrion’s niece. It wasn’t much of a leap to assume the man was Jon himself, and the girl Arya. No wonder no one had ever been able to find her. She must have hidden aboard a ship and fled to Braavos after her father’s execution, once the restrictions on the ports had been relaxed – Cersei assuming she’d fled over land. Ingenious really.

“Why would I have to do with it? I thought you never found her? Or has Joffrey’s parades finally yielded results?”

Joffrey had been receiving parades of red-heads in the throne-room each day Sansa had been missing. None of them actually were the poor girl. Tyrion’s agents in Braavos had confirmed Sansa’s arrival at Myrcella and Jon’s manor – though how they’d afforded such a place he didn’t know. So far, five of the girls had been found dead. Tyrion had set Bronn to investigate the murders, and he’d confirmed what Tyrion had feared. Littlefinger had fed the girls to Joffrey’s insanity. Tyrion tried to keep an eye on them since, but the sheer number of girls meant they were hard to track and follow, and Littlefinger’s own agents were hard at work to hide the abductions.

Tywin held up a scroll and threw it at Tyrion, who caught it clumsily.

“My Lord Hand,

“I believe I have discovered news concerning Sansa Stark. A letter, in fact, sent to young Arya by her bastard brother Jon Snow. The one that supposedly joined the Night’s Watch. Only this message was sent from Braavos and predates Lord Stark’s execution. 

It seems the bastard got the Princess’s handmaiden, Rosamund, pregnant while they were in Winterfell, and the pair fled across the Narrow Sea at the shame of it. And they were aided by your own son Tyrion. 

Curious, I sent my agents to Braavos to discover if this letter still proved true. They found far more than I ever imagined. Snow owns a modest manor shortly outside the city, and Rosamund and the baby live there still. But they are not alone. A young woman of Stark colouring and a wild disposition, a red-haired beauty of perhaps fifteen name days, and a giant white Direwolf live with them. My informants were not able to confirm names, but I do not believe it is a stretch given the reports of a giant wolf stalking the Red Keep the night of Sansa’s abduction, or the description of the two girls.

Arya and Sansa Stark are in Braavos with their Bastard brother.

I give this information to you, the Hand, freely to aid the Crown in its investigation.

Petyr Baelish, Lord Consort of the Vale.”

Tyrion was rather proud of the fact that he was able to maintain his facial expression as he read the note, not giving away for a second the sheer panic that flooded his system.

He swallowed, then looked up at his father.

“Baelish is a rumour monger and…”

“I know what Baelish is. Why in the Seven Hells would you help the Stark bastard and a handmaiden flee the country?!”

Tyrion shrugged, wishing for a glass of wine.

“The lad was ostracised by his family, detested by Lady Catelyn…”

“As he should have been,” Tywin interjected, but Tyrion continued anyway, “Rosamund was Myrcella’s most trusted handmaiden. Myrcella begged me to help the poor girl. So I did. I was planning to take a ship to visit the Wall anyway, it wasn’t any harm to take the girl and the bastard to Braavos on the way. He was a bastard incapable of inheriting anything anyway. I didn’t see any valid reason _not_ to help them.” 

Tywin narrowed his eyes.

“Did you help Sansa Stark escape?”

Tyrion scoffed, “You may hate me, and I may not have wanted to marry the girl, but I wouldn’t deliberately sabotage our family’s plans.”

Tywin and Tyrion stared at one another for a long time, until finally, Tywin leaned back in his chair.

“Very well. It matters little now anyway. By tomorrow the bastard and his whore will be dead and the Stark girls on their way back here. Get out.” Tyrion, repressing the panic in his chest, did as he was bid and retreated. But as he walked back to his rooms, hand on the wall to steady himself on shaking legs, he couldn’t help but think of his niece, her child, and Jon Snow.

 _“I’m so sorry, my dear Myrcella,”_ he muttered as he reached his rooms, poured a cup of wine and drank himself into a stupor to evade the pain.

* * *

# Arya II

Arya smelt the flames before she saw them.

She was with Myrcella, returning from the grocers’ market with fresh loaves of bread for the evening’s meal as they always did. The tradition had started as part of Arya’s recovery. A short walk to help her regain her strength and balance. But even after she’d healed, they kept it up. It was their time to talk and be in each other’s company, regardless of how busy their days became. It also gave Arya the chance to protect the woman she considered her best friend, a sister even. Her brother’s love.

But today, as they walked the cobblestone road past the other wealthy Braavosi manors, a smell hit Arya’s nose. The scent of fire beyond ordinary woodsmoke. It was akin to the fires that she had smelled when, following winter storms, homes in Winter town would catch fire.

She stopped short, holding a hand up for Myrcella, arms laden with baskets of bread and vegetables, to mirror her actions.

“What is it?” She asked, confused. Arya didn’t answer. Her eyes had caught movement between the houses opposite them. An undulation of the shadow. It was times like this she wished she had Nymeria’s sense of smell outside her wolf-dreams. 

Two roughs emerged from the shadowed alcove at the same time the door to one of the manors opened, and three men with cudgels left. Arya drew Needle from the sheath at her back. She found the back sheath both more intimidating and easier to draw than the side sheath. Plus, it left more room for knives on her belt.

“Leave now, and I won’t gut you all,” she said, positioning herself to that Myrcella was behind her. She knew Myrcella wasn’t a simpering maid, however, neither was she a fighter. Arya had taken a long time to accept that feminine pursuits, like reading, teaching and tending to animals and gardening were just as valuable and worthy of respect as manly arts like swordwork or smithing. It had been Myrcella that inadvertently caused Arya to realise that Arya herself had been just as bad as Sansa growing up. She had bullied Sansa for not enjoying fighting, for only caring about needlework and being a lady. But seeing how skilled Myrcella was at manipulating people, and how much she loved children and animals and her garden, had forced her to revaluate things. In that way, she had come to realise that the idea that skills shouldn’t be bound by gender wasn’t strong enough. Instead, all people should be entitled to learning the skills they enjoyed and were good at; regardless of gender or money or anything else. Arya should be able to learn to fight, Sansa had the right to be ladylike, and Myrcella shouldn’t have to tend a garden in secret.

“Arya Stark. You’re coming with us,” the leader said in a thick Westerosi accent.

“Lannister men,” she hissed. Myrcella grew stern and called out to the leader.

“I am Myrcella Baratheon, Princess of Westeros. I command you to surrender immediately.”

The men laughed.

“Princess aye? Yeah, and I’m the Imp. Lord Tywin doesn’t care about you, whore. You should be grateful; you’ll have a much nicer death than the bastard and the baby.” 

Arya saw red, and as Myrcella screamed in anguish, she pounced. She rolled underneath the leader’s feet before he even drew his blade, slicing at the tendons in his ankles just as the water-dancers had taught her. He squealed like a pig, collapsing on dead feet as Arya rolled to hers. Two knives flew free of her hands, hitting the men on either side of her. One took the knife in his sword arm, the other struck through the neck. A swipe with Needle and the man with the knife in his arm fell to the ground as dead as his companion.

That left two. They circled each other, steel bared. Myrcella used the opportunity to run ahead, towards the source of the smoke. Arya wanted to yell at her to stop, that there could be more of them. But Arya’s niece, her namesake, was in that building with Jon and Sansa. If not for these two, there would be nothing stopping her from running for them.

The man on her left lunged forward, and Arya twisted around the thrust, slicing at his wrist. His hand went dead as blood spurted from the wound, and Arya ducked as an overhead blow almost took her head off. She thrust forward underneath the swing, and the thin point of her blade jabbed straight into the unprotected fleshy part beneath his shoulder. She pushed further, and he crumpled to the ground, dropping his sword. 

Arya stepped back, panting, body covered in sweat, but didn’t give herself time to rest. Instead, after making sure all five were dead and unable to report back to Tywin that they’d failed, she ran up the street towards the house.

When she arrived, the whole building was aflame. Ghost was rolling around in the dirt, trying to put out the fire clinging to his coat. Jon lay in the dirt, unconscious, shirt burnt away and glowing red burns on his chest. Myrcella…

A piece of the roof caved in, and Arya heard screams from within. Without thinking, she bolted for the front door, shoving aside the debris. Inside, the blistering heat was everywhere, and she choked on the smoke. But she kept moving, for the voices of Myrcella and Sansa were coming closer and closer. She crossed the living room as fire crept up the walls and mounted the staircase just as Myrcella appeared, Sansa’s arm over shoulder. Sansa’s leg was a twisted, bloody mess, and her arm and shoulder were burnt, but she clung to the crying bundle buried in her chest with everything she had, and Arya’s heart soared.

“Come on!” She screamed, moving up the stairs and taking little Arya from Sansa’s arms to lessen the weight on her bad leg. 

The three women stumbled out of the house, and Ghost immediately rushed to them, proving support for Sansa and Myrcella. They reached Jon and collapsed to the ground, coughing and heavy breathing.

“What happened?!” Arya exclaimed as she checked little Arya for any wounds and tried to hush the baby. Myrcella, seeing her daughter in hand, bent over Jon to ensure he was still breathing.

“I… those men! They came into the house. Jon, he was outside tending the gardens. They came after me and I… I kicked one of them and slammed the door. He tripped, knocked one of the torches free in his fall. The whole place went up. Jon, he tried to get to us, but the roof collapsed on him… I…” Sansa shuddered, tears streaming down her ash-covered face. “I left him, I went for Arya instead. She was crying and I…”

“Shh,” Myrcella whispered, pulling Sansa into a hug, “You did the right thing.”

“But Cella! I didn’t get there in time! By the time I reached her, her bed was aflame, and she was stuck inside her room.” 

Arya looked down at the two-year-old in her arms. She was crying, and she’d soiled her clothes, but otherwise, she didn’t have a scratch on her.

* * *

# Daenerys I

**2 years later…**

Daenerys sat on her throne in the Great Pyramid of Meereen watching as a blonde-haired, green-eyed woman slightly younger than she walked into the chamber. Behind her came a man with black hair slicked back, a four-year-old girl walking at his feet with her hand in his, and two young women. The first was around the same age as the others, but with fiery red hair and a pale complexion. The second was a few years younger, with stringy brown hair that fell past her shoulders. And she had a sword strapped to her back.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen…” As Missandei called out her titles in High-Valyrian, Dany watched the newcomers and realised they didn’t understand a word. Dany rose to her feet and raised a hand to Missandei, who stopped at Breaker of Chains.

“You’re from Westeros?” She asked them. The trio shared a glance before the blonde woman stepped forward.

“We are Your Grace,” she said.

“Then what are you doing here? Halfway around the world?” She asked, genuinely interested. The last Westerosi to cross her path was Ser Barristan – who was out on patrol – and Ser Jorah was standing next to her as always. Both had been exiled, though for different reasons, so the question was, were these four exiles to? And if so, why come before her?

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t too keen on coming to see you. We wanted to stay very far away from the wars of Westeros. But, things change, and now we’re here because we need your help,” the blonde woman said.

Now she was really interested.

“What help do you need?”

The blonde turned to the man, who shifted slightly, turning his hard gaze from Daenerys to the blonde, then to the other women, before sighing, and leading the little girl up the stairs. Grey Worm’s hand clenched on his spear, and Ser Jorah stepped forward. But the man and his daughter – for she could be no one else – didn’t come up to Daenerys. They went to a brazier on the side of the stairs. The little girl jumped into her father’s arms and, seeing him nod, put her hand into the flames. Daenerys stepped forward and gasped. The girl didn’t even flinch! Daenerys walked down the stairs and stopped next to the pair, staring in awe at this tiny child who was the spitting image of her mother. Blonde hair, the same face shape. But the eyes. Her eyes were the same shade of purple as Daenerys’ own. Dany, seeing the look of well-restrained fear in the little girl’s eyes, lifted up her own hand, and placed it into the fires. The sleeve of her dress began to smoulder, but she didn’t care. Instead, she watched as the little girl’s eyes went wide in surprise and shock before her mouth broke into a smile. 

“Who are you?” Dany asked them, staring at all four people with renewed shock. 

“My name is Jon Snow, your Grace. Bastard son of Eddard Stark. This is Myrcella, bastard daughter of Jaime Lannister, and our daughter, Arya.”

“And I’m Arya Stark. Daughter of Eddard Stark. This is my sister Sansa. Nice to meet you Daenerys Targaryen,” the final woman said, perking up from her place at the back and gesturing to the red-head, a smug smile on her face as she stared at Dany’s own, which was trapped between shock, horror and utter confusion. ‘Sansa’ and ‘Myrcella’ both curtsied to her. ‘Arya’ did not.

Daenerys glanced at her advisers, all of whom shared her look of complete bewilderment.

“Welcome to Meereen,” she said eventually, gaze still fixated on the little girl’s purple eyes.

* * *

Daenerys stood in a field outside Meereen with Jon Snow, Myrcella Waters, Arya Snow, Sansa and Arya Stark, Dario, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan watching the dragons play around in the air. If she needed any confirmation regarding the identities of her visitors, she’d gotten it when Sir Barristan had almost fainted upon seeing the golden-haired woman. So now, here they were. To see if Arya Snow’s resistance to fire translated to an affinity with the dragons. If the Dragons liked her, there was no other explanation; the girl must have Targaryen blood. Based on what the family had told her, if the girl was the blood of the Dragon, it must be through Jon somehow, as Myrcella knew full well who her parents were. Jon, on the other hand, had no idea who his mother was, the secret dying with Ned Stark at the Sept of Baelor.

“I’m not sure about this…” Jon said, eying the dragons as Rhaegal peeled away from the others, fluttering down to the ground. He dropped to the grass, and little Arya let out a small eek, hiding behind her mother’s skirts. The older Arya seemingly had no such qualms, eyeing the dragons with suspicion combined with a little bit of awe. Myrcella seemed intrigued by the majestic creatures, entranced even. Jon seemed very nervous.

“Don’t worry. Even if the Dragons don’t take to her, they won’t harm anyone without my leave. You have my word.”

That seemed to be enough for Jon, who nodded, though his hand still gripped his sword. Daenerys stepped up to Myrcella and knelt down to little Arya’s level.

“Hey. Do you want to see if you can control a Dragon like me?” She asked softly. Arya looked anxious for a second before a little smile broke across her face.

“You can control Dragons?” She asked in awe. Daenerys felt terrible for lying to her, but there was no other way to know for sure. And she had to know. She held out her hand, and Arya hesitantly took it.

“The rest of you wait here,” She ordered. Then she and Arya walked towards Rhaegal, who looked about ready to take a nap.

“Rhaegal!” She called, thankful it wasn’t Drogon who came down. Rhaegal was the sweetest of the three, best for introductions. Rhaegal lifted his head and snorted some smoke. Daenerys and Arya stepped up to him, and Daenerys laid a hand on his green-scaled snout. She glanced to Arya, who was watching her with total awe in her expression. 

“Give it a try,” Daenerys beckoned. She guided Arya’s hand up to Rhaegal’s nose, and her breath hitched when Rhaegal almost purred into the little girl’s touch. The other dragons must have heard him, because Drogon and Viserion landed beside them. Thankfully Arya didn’t notice. She was too intent on running her hand over Rhaegal’s nose. He shifted his head slightly, so he was closer to her, and Arya let out a soft giggle. If that didn’t confirm it, Daenerys didn’t know what did. Daenerys glanced back to the crowd. Arya remained a statue, Sir Barristan and Sir Jorah were looking on in shock, Myrcella was beaming in pride, and Jon seemed resigned to fear.

* * *

# Tyrion III

When Tyrion was dragged by the Unsullied guards with Mormont into the throne room of Meereen, he was so stunned at what he saw his jaw literally fell open. Daenerys was sitting at the top of the staircase, Unsullied commander and Barristan Selmy on one side, three people he never thought he’d see again on the other. Myrcella had grown into a gorgeous woman. Her golden hair was braided similar to Daenerys own, and her green eyes were shining with happiness directed at him. She wore a dress of red and gold with a Dragon stitched across the shoulder. Behind her stood Jon Snow. He still wore a stoic expression, but he now had a few laugh lines that Tyrion could detect. He wore black and red leather armour, also with the Targaryen upon his doublet, and his hair was slicked back. He had two swords, a bastard sword on his hip and a long sword on his back. Standing in front of both of them was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair and pale skin. She too carried a sword on her back and at least three knives that Tyrion could see. On her wrists, Tyrion could just catch the glint of steel hidden in her sleeves. Arya Stark.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Queen of Meereen and Kalessi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains,” a woman announced, a local if Tyrion had to guess. Daenerys rose elegantly to her feet, but Myrcella beat her to it. She raced down the stairs, Sir Barristan calling out to her. But she didn’t care. She all but barrelled into Tyrion, and he wrapped his arms around her as best he could, trying not to fall over.

“Seven hells! I thought you were dead!” Myrcella breathed into his shoulder.

“Not yet, at least. Though your mother certainly tried. Jamie freed me at the last minute,” he replied. Myrcella pulled back, tears in her eyes. 

“What happened to your face?” She laughed, running a finger across his scar.

“I charged through the gates of Kings Landing to defend the city against Stannis Baratheon. I was a mighty warrior!” Tyrion proclaimed, winking slyly at her. Myrcella broke out into more laughter.

“I’m sure you were. I would have liked to have seen it!”

“Lady Myrcella? If you wouldn’t mind introducing me?” Myrcella and Tyrion turned towards Daenerys, who had stepped down from her seat at the top of the stairs. Jon, Arya and Sir Barristan stood beside her.

“Your Grace, this is my Uncle, Tyrion of the House Lannister. He’s the one who smuggled Jon and me away from certain death in Westeros. He’s brave and kind to a fault. And he’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet,” Myrcella stated proudly, and Tyrion couldn’t help blushing slightly at her praise.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said, kneeling as the silver-haired woman stepped closer.

“Arise, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said. Tyrion raised an eyebrow. Okay. Now to play the game.

“I don’t think I am a lord anymore, your Grace. Though I certainly appreciate the courtesy.”

Daenerys smiled at him then. “In that case, none of us are lords or ladies here. Tell me, _Lord_ Tyrion, why have you sought me out?” She made sure to stress the title.

Tyrion took a deep breath. He’d rehearsed this.

“When I was a young man, I heard a story about a baby born during the worst storm in living memory. She had no wealth, no lands, no army, only a name and a handful of supporters, most of whom probably thought they could use that name to benefit themselves. They kept her alive, moving her from place to place, often hours ahead of the men who had been sent to kill her. She was eventually sold off to some warlord on the edge of the world, and that appeared to be that. And then a few years later, the most well-informed person I knew told me that this girl without wealth, lands, or armies had somehow acquired all 3 in a very short span of time, along with three dragons. He thought she was our best, last chance to build a better world. I thought you were worth meeting at the very least.”

Daenerys seemed to consider that for a moment. “And why are you worth meeting?” She asked. “Why should I spend my time listening to you?” It was said without malice or threat. It was a genuine question, and Tyrion respected that. This was a monarch he could work with.

“When I served as Hand of the King, I did quite well considering the king in question preferred torturing animals to leading his people. I could do an even better job advising a ruler worth the name. Based on what I’ve seen so far, and the fact that my niece is standing beside you – a story I’d very much like to hear – it appears that that is indeed what you are.” Daenerys nodded her head, before turning towards Mormont, who was standing restrained at the back of the room, gaged, between two Unsullied guards.

“If you wish to be my adviser, let us start with him. My advisers are stumped over it. Jon wants him executed, it’s the Northern honour in him I expect, so do Arya and Ser Barristan. He saved my life dozens of times, yet he betrayed me. What do you think?” Tyrion sighed. He’d feared this question would come up.

“He worships you. He is in love with you, I think. I can’t remember seeing a sane man as devoted to anything as he is to serving you. He claims he would kill for you and die for you, and nothing I have witnessed gives me a reason to doubt him. But he did not trust you with the truth – an unpleasant truth, to be sure – but one of great significance to you. He did not trust that you would be wise enough to forgive him.” Daenerys raised an eyebrow.

“So, I should kill him?”

“A ruler who kills those that are devoted to her is not a ruler that inspires devotion. And you’re going to need to inspire devotion, and lots of it, if you’re ever going to rule across the Narrow Sea. But you cannot have him by your side when you do.” Daenerys turned to Myrcella, who nodded her head solemnly. She glanced back to her other advisers, but they said nothing. Leaving the decision to her alone.

She said something in High Valyrian Tyrion didn’t understand, the guards nodded, and they dragged Mormont from the room. 

“Come then, Tyrion Lannister. Let’s see what you think of our plans to inspire devotion in Westeros.” Daenerys turned on her heel and walked back up the stairs and into the corridor beyond. Slowly the other people in the room filed out, leaving only Jon Snow, Myrcella, Barristan and Arya Stark.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Tyrion stated, letting out a breath of relief.

“You impressed her,” Barristan said, walking down the stairs with Jon.

“When we heard you’d been arrested for Joffrey’s murder I feared the worst,” Myrcella said, hugging him again.

“Did you do it?” Arya asked.

“No. Though I did kill my father if that’s any consolation.” Arya laughed.

“On his chamber pot, I heard. Respect.” Tyrion let out a fake chuckle but said nothing.

“I knew you didn’t kill Joffrey. You would have been smarter about it. Who kills a king and lets themselves get caught for it?” Myrcella said, shaking her head.

Tyrion stared at Myrcella, “the child?”

Myrcella beamed, and Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief.

“She’s gorgeous. She’s the spitting image of me if you can believe it. She absolutely adores the Queen, and she follows Arya around every day. Missandei and I are teaching her words and writing. She already speaks the common tongue, and she’s picking up High Valyrian like a champ. Arya and Jon taught her how to wield a dagger. I was against it at first, but really it’s best she knows how to defend herself…” Myrcella continued to waffle on as Barristan led the group up into the depths of the Great Pyramid. Jon and Arya were behind Tyrion, whispering to each other. He tried to eavesdrop, but Myrcella was too loud and distracting. 

Eventually, they reached a room near the summit of the pyramid. Displayed on a table in the centre of the room was a map of Westeros and Essos, with tiny carvings placed across it.

Sansa Stark stood in the back, a child on her lap with golden hair. 

“Lady Sansa, your family failed to mention your presence,” Tyrion said.

Sansa winked slyly at Tyrion, before letting the little girl drop to the floor.

“Run along now, sweetheart,” she whispered. 

The young girl looked to Myrcella and Jon, who nodded, before darting out a side door. She certainly was the spitting image of her mother.

“So, your Grace. What is your plan?” Tyrion addressed Daenerys.

Myrcella stepped up to the map table and began pointing at the various locations. 

“The North is currently under the control of the Boltons, a family quite universally hated across Westeros. We intend to use that against them.”

“Northerners are loyal. They have no love for the Boltons and will kick them out if they can. Stannis Baratheon is marching for Winterfell according to our intel. If he defeats the Boltons, the Northerners probably won’t care. To them, he’s another outsider. Whoever wins, one of our problems is defeated, and the other will be weakened,” Sansa said, her voice possessing more determination and maturity than he could remember it having. 

“We plan to take the Dragons up there and unite the forces of the North against the Boltons. With the Dragons, we can decimate the Bolton forces, and reclaim the North. That gives us a key foothold, loyalty in Westeros, and White Harbour as a staging ground,” Jon finished.

Tyrion nodded thoughtfully. 

“It’s a good plan, well thought out. But what stops the Northerners as seeing you as a foreigner just like Stannis?” It was Daenerys he directed the question to, but Arya who answered.

“She has us, not to mention mini-me.”

“Mini-me?”

Myrcella beamed, “Arya, my Arya, can control the Dragons.” Tyrion’s jaw fell open.

“Really?”

Daenerys nodded, “Really. She’s the only one besides me they really like. They don’t mind Jon or Missandei, but Arya is the only one apart from me they’ll willingly come to when called. She’s been a great help in keeping them in line. They like to protect her, which keeps them busy. Though Drogon is still wilder than the others.” Tyrion wasn’t sure he believed what he was hearing.

“How is that possible?”

Sansa stepped in. “We think Jon’s mother must have had Targaryen blood. No one knows who she was, but there’s no denying it.” Tyrion rubbed his beard. He would certainly love to hear more about _that,_ but now wasn’t the time.

“In that case, for the Northerners, someone with Stark blood having power over the Dragons could be a game-changer. Especially if they’ll obey Snow here,” Tyrion said, pointing at Jon.

“Targaryen,” Daenerys said forcefully, and Tyrion frowned in confusion. “I’ve legitimised Jon as a Targaryen. I may not be able to declare someone a Stark until I control the North, but as head of House Targaryen, its membership is my prerogative. If Jon’s mother was of the Blood of Old Valyria, he deserves to have a rightful name.” Tyrion noticed the twitch of a smile that played at Jon’s lips as she spoke, and Tyrion locked eyes with Daenerys. Clever girl. Her face showed pride and defence, but Tyrion could see the genius behind the move. By giving Jon the one thing he’d always wanted, a family name, she’d won his forever loyalty. 

“Arya Targaryen, the first of her name, is to be Princess of Dragonstone upon our return to Westeros; and is my heir.”

Tyrion actually stepped back at that.

“Forgive me for not understanding your Grace, but why not a child of your own as heir?”

Daenerys turned away at that point, staring out the window.

“The Dragons are my children. They’re the only children I’ll ever have.” She said simply, and Tyrion realised he’d pressed a nerve. He turned to Myrcella, who shook her head softly. He nodded, then gestured for her to continue.

“While Jon and Arya reclaim the North, the Queen will land at Dragonstone, which Stannis Baratheon has left abandoned, with the Unsullied. From there, we will take Storm’s End, gaining us a powerful foothold in the South.” Tyrion stepped up to the table, staring at the tiny figures.

“And the Lannister Army will be trapped between the North and the South. An ingenious plan.” Then Tyrion paused, glancing to the West, where several Lion pieces sat over Casterly Rock. “But if I might make a suggestion, Dragonstone has sentimental value to you I understand, but it’s also predictable. It offers a good launching point for attacks on Kings Landing and Storms End. But Cersei knows that and will prepare accordingly.” 

Myrcella frowned, “I didn’t think of that.”

Tyrion resisted the urge to gasp. Myrcella had come up with the plan?! Then he smiled at her. She must have learned more from him than he thought.

“It’s not a bad plan by any means, I was merely pointing out my observations,” he quickly amended.

“No, I get it. I’m just disappointed in myself for not thinking about it,” Myrcella said. 

“Don’t be. I might have made the same mistake without another set of eyes.”

“Indeed. I welcome any and all counsel from all sources. You have an alternative option?” Daenerys asked.

“Indeed.” Then he walked around the table and picked up the lion statue next to Casterly Rock. “Go where the enemy isn’t. As I understand it, and correct me if I’m wrong, the bulk of the Lannister army is in Kings Landing.” Nobody objected. “For decades, house Lannister has been the real power in Westeros. Send a message to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Take the Rock, take away Lannister gold, take away their reputation. And it will make the Tyrells nervous, having troops so close to Highgarden.”

“But the Rock is supposed to be impregnable. How would we get in?” Daenerys asked, a smile on her face betraying her excitement.

“Funny story. My father didn’t like me very much, so when I came of age, he thought it a grand joke to give me the worst job he could think of. Managing the sewers of Casterly Rock and Lanisport. At the time my character was… um, let’s say less than savoury and leave it at that. Either way, I built myself a secret passage into the castle, and you can use that to get inside.” Daenerys grinned, and Myrcella gasped.

“Lann the Clever strikes again,” She exclaimed, winking at him. 

“Exactly.”

“So, we take Casterly Rock, we reclaim the North. What then? The rest of the South remains in Lannister hands,” Jon asked.

“Walder Fray needs to die,” Arya stated, as if daring anyone to gainsay her.

“Highgarden should be the next target. The Reach holds most of the realm’s food supply. If we cut it off, Kings Landing is even weaker,” Barristan supplied. 

“Our original plan after securing the Stormlands and the North was to ask for the Lannisters surrender. I don’t think they’ll actually take it, but the offer might appeal to some of the smaller houses, particularly in the Riverlands,” Daenerys finished.

“The plan still works, but now we’ll have an even stronger position to negotiate from,” Myrcella pointed out.

“And when Cersei inevitably says no?” Tyrion asked. 

“The Northerners won’t leave the North, not after last time, especially if the rumours about the Wildlings amassing beyond the Wall are true. I was thinking about maybe visiting Castle Black to see what’s truth and what’s not while I’m up there. It wouldn’t take long,” Jon said.

“Good idea.” Daenerys said, “If the Lannister’s refuse to surrender and elect to meet in battle, we will meet them on the field with our armies and the Dragons. If they choose to remain locked up in the city, we can starve them out.”

Tyrion stared at the table for a few minutes, thinking everything over. Then he looked the Queen in the eye.

“When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Episodic Break-Down will be up in five minutes and will be part two of the series. Follow the link to see it!


	4. Volume IV

#  _**Volume IV** _

* * *

# Jon IV

Jon had considerable experience with people who wielded powers over others. 

His father was a leader guided by honour. He had believed in honesty, trust, and the protection of the weak above anything else. But that trust, that belief that everyone was constrained by the same rules he imposed on himself, had gotten him killed on the steps of the Sept of Baelor for his daughter and the entire city of Kings Landing to see. A good leader needed honour, but could not let it consume them.

King Robert was a leader guided by strength. He’d gained his power through strength of arms, with sheer force of will and an army at his command. But strength was not leadership. It was an illusion easily pushed aside. A good leader needed strength of will, arms and mind all; but most importantly, they had to temper it with wisdom. 

Queen Cersei was a leader guided by ambition. All the power she wielded had been clawed from others and made her own. Formidable and ruthless, hers was a leadership that could crush mountains, but it could not climb them, nor rebuild from their shattered remains. Ambition, like a fire, needed fuel to burn. If it ran out of kindling, it fizzled and died, or burnt the one tending it. A good leader had ambition, but not for themselves. For their country, or for their people.

Tyrion Lannister was a leader guided by desire. He fixed his formidable mind, his very being, on achieving a goal, and cared nothing for who or what got in his way. He would step on any and all to fulfil that desire, be it vengeance, devotion or protection. Desire was a trait all men possessed, but a good leader must have the will to temper it, to stand aside if another course of action presented itself, or refrain if the cost too high.

Finally, there was Myrcella. A leader guided by protection. Myrcella, raised mostly by an uncaring family, had learned to latch onto the things she could call her own and never let them go. It was just one of the things he loved about her. But she put her family before anything else. If there was a choice to be made between saving her country or her daughter, she would choose the latter without a second hesitation, regardless of the consequences. He loved her with all his heart, but that trait, to Jon’s mind, was what stopped her being a great leader. She could never do as Jon’s father had done so often and put the realm before his family.

Daenerys… the more he saw the layers of the Targaryen queen, the more he found himself believing in the world she claimed to strive for. She was a leader with phenomenal ambition and desire, but both were held by the iron grip of her own will. She was desperate, much like Myrcella, to protect those she loved. Fierce in her devotion. And when she saw an injustice, her honour demanded she intervene. However, she didn’t allow that honour to blind her to truths she didn’t wish to believe, or her kindness to overwhelm her duty.

Myrcella had told him about how Daenerys had asked her to speak of Jaime, asked to hear the Kingslayer’s side of the story of the Mad King’s death. Jon was also one of the few who knew that each night after supper, Daenerys would sit with Sir Barristan and have him tell her a single story from his long years of service. The former Lord Commander had served three Targaryen kings and known several other members of her family – those who were mad, and those who weren’t. She had only the composure to listen to a single tale before she sent him away, but each time she discerned more truth from the lies her brother Viserys had spoken to her. It had been going on for as long as Jon and Myrcella had been with the Queen, and he assumed it was a ritual of hers long before as well.

Then there was the matter of the riot. Daenerys had been close with the freed slave-man, Mossador, though Jon and Myrcella hadn’t been a member of Daenerys inner circle long enough to know him well. He’d killed the Son of the Harpy Darrio captured before they could interrogate him. Daenerys had been furious, and Arya had argued for him to be executed on the spot. But Jon, Myrcella and Sansa had demanded the man be tried. He was not above the law, and Daenerys, despite her friendship, had agreed. In the riot that followed, Jon had saved the Queen’s life, which had earned him a family name. 

No more were they a family of bastards, outcast and forgotten. His wife, his magnificent Myrcella, could finally have the life she deserved again. The one she’d given up for him. His daughter, his Arya, was heir to Daenerys empire and could control the dragons. It was everything Jon had ever dreamed. And he hoped, prayed even, that his mother – his Targaryen mother, whomever she was – could see him now. He’d make her proud. He would live up to her name; the name Daenerys had given him.

To his mind, that was the truth of power. It was a balance between devotion and dominion, honour and ambition, preservation and ruin. 

Jon… he didn’t trust himself with power. He feared he’d fall into the same trap as his father, and he was not much different than Myrcella. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his daughter. If that meant standing by Daenerys side as she conquered Westeros, so be it. He leaned too close to honour and devotion, and not enough towards ambition or ruin. Tyrion, he was similar yet different, ambition was perhaps his greatest flaw – as it was all Lannisters – but his desire to prove himself would be his downfall. Sansa and Arya too struggled to find balance with themselves. Sansa seemed to grow more adept at her deceits and manipulations by the day, corresponding in secret with Varys and his little birds. Ambition wasn’t her vice, however, it was her need to control things, to dominate. She had spent so long being used, now she’d been given a taste of the same power clung to it with everything she had. Perhaps that was why she and Tyrion worked so well together. He reached far, and she refused to give up ground – a tempering of wills. Arya… it was towards ruin she turned. She had greater skill with knife, bow and sword than almost all she went up against, and she was only growing stronger as she aged. All her anger, her frustration, she poured it into her swordplay, and Jon couldn’t fault her for it. In fact, he feared what might be if that outlet was denied her. He’d heard her muttering to herself at night. Reciting a list of names of those who’d wronged her and the family. He didn’t know what she planned to do with them and didn’t ask. He tried to help her… but he just didn’t know-how.

He didn’t understand how she did it, but Daenerys… she was the only person he’d ever known with the ability to balance everything. To be equal parts honourable and ruthless, both kind and ambitious at once. Maybe that was what scared him the most. The fear that she might lose that balance, and burn the world to ashes, with him and everyone else he loved caught in the inferno.

“You’re brooding again,” Myrcella said teasingly, leaning against the balcony railing of their suite in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. She’d taken to the heat of Slaver’s Bay far better than he had, and had adopted the silken garments with their low necklines and transparent cloth eagerly. It amused her to no end that all three Starks just couldn’t get over how… immodest everything here was. Arya refused point-blank to wear silk, but she’d changed her furs to something similar to Darrio’s garb. Sansa and Jon still wore their more traditional Westerosi styles, though the garments were thinner, and made of cotton to breathe more. Neither of them could bring themselves to wear less. 

“How can you tell?” he asked, leaning back against the headboard of their lush four-poster bed. It was far larger than needed for the two of them, but all the beds in the Pyramid were just as large. Jon had a sour suspicion he knew why.

“Your brow crinkles, and you were tapping on your leg.” He tried to relax his face, but he must have failed because she laughed that musical tone at him again. There was a faint breeze tonight, and it was rustling her hair slightly, given her golden curls an almost ethereal flutter as they gleamed in the moonlight.

She turned back to him, smiling again, and Jon couldn’t help lingering on her belly, which had begun to swell again.

“So, what was it this time?” She asked softly. “The babe? Arya and the dragons?”

Jon snorted. He was still not impressed Daenerys and Myrcella had let his daughter ride on one of the things without telling him. The beasts terrified him, though he tried his best not to show it.

“What if all this doesn’t work?” He asked. “These plans of ours? We could fail, or Daenerys might die. What then? We’re tied to this now, there’s no escaping it. Not with those violet eyes. I wish sometimes we’d never found out about Arya’s gift. I wish we could have just stayed in Braavos.”

Myrcella stepped away from the balcony and sat down beside him, grabbing his hand and placing it atop her belly.

“I wish we could go back too. Gods but I wish it. But that’s not who we are. The Northerners… they _need_ you. The Boltons have to be stopped, and if my mother ever learns the truth… if Grandfather told her… she’ll never leave us alone. We have to do this, Jon. I believe in Daenerys; in this better world she’s trying to build. Let yourself believe in it too.” 

He took her hand and squeezed it.

“I try. But you know I’m not good at it.”

She smiled at him again, and he would tell anyone who asked until the day he died that that was the most amazing thing in his entire life. Making this woman smile.

“That’s all I ask.”

But that dark part of his mind that whispered in Lady Catelyn’s voice couldn’t help but remind him that Myrcella was as much a Lannister as Cersei and Tyrion were, and she carried that same hungering ambition deep within. 

She pressed her forehead to his and kissed him deeply, her breasts brushing against his bare chest. That was another change. He couldn’t sleep fully clothed in this gods-forsaken heat. It was not, however, unwelcome; Myrcella _loved_ it. And what Myrcella loved, led to much more frequent nights of lovemaking, as her current status attested too.

She sat up, pulling her hair over one shoulder, his erection twitching against her thigh.

“And, if the plan does fail, we’ll just vanish again. We’re getting really good at it now. Just us and a tiny house on the coast. In Dorne maybe, or the Reach.”

Every day he thanked the Old Gods for bringing Myrcella into his life. He couldn’t imagine what he’d be like without her. Didn’t _want_ to imagine it. She was his ray of sunshine; his eternal spirit of hope. 

“Without you, I’d be lost,” he whispered. Myrcella smiled softly at him, then took his length in hand, and pulled it deep into her folds.

“Without you, I’d be a monster,” she replied. 

“I promised you once, and I’ll promise you again now and forever; I’ll never lead you astray, just as long as you temper my heart each day.”

“Always.”

And under the stars of Essos, two bastards at the edge of the world reminded one another of the power of their love. 

* * *

# Jaime I

“Push me up higher!” Jaime hissed, trying to grab the stone ledge of the window of Myrcella’s room in Sunspear.

“Why the fuck did I agree to help you with this?” Bronn snapped back as he held Jamie’s legs on his shoulders.

“Because I’m rich and you’re not?”

“All I wanted was a fucking castle...”

“I’m going to jump,” Jaime said, bracing his knees. Bronn swayed beneath him.

“What! No, you’re fucking not…” He jumped and grabbed hold of the metal window-bar with his good hand. He braced his legs against the wall and, using every scrap of the upper-body strength he’d drilled back into him since his captivity, he pulled himself up onto the sill and peered inside. 

And found Myrcella and her intended, Trystane Martell, staring back at him in wide-eyed horror.

She shrieked, and Jamie slipped. He lost his footing on the ledge and collapsed backwards, falling through the air and slamming right into Bronn’s back, knocking both of them into the shrubbery beneath the window. Bronn’s face became buried in the plant, Jaime landing on top of him. He jumped to his feet in a rush and turned back to the sellsword, just in time to see him pull his face out of the bush, covered in leaves, twigs embedded in his hair.

“No castle is worth this.”

Myrcella and Trystane came running around the corner of the building, a troop of guards in tow. They stopped short when they saw him and dropped their spears into ready positions.

“Who in the Seven Hells are you, and how did you get in here?” Trystane demanded. Jaime completely ignored him; his gaze was locked on Myrcella’s face. She had grown into an incredible beauty since he’d last seen her, that was undoubtedly true. But he knew the face of his daughter, and this wasn’t her. The nose was too concave, the eyes more hazel than emerald, and her eyebrows thinner. 

“Rosamund?”

The girl paled in utter terror, and Jaime’s heart jumped into his throat. When was the last time he’d seen Myrcella before she left? He hadn’t been there when she’d been sent away; he’d been in Robb Stark’s dungeon. Surely, he’d seen her before he’d fled King’s Landing after attacking Lord Stark? It seemed a lifetime ago now.

But no, he hadn’t.

The last time he’d spoken to her had been on the Kingsroad. Before Robert sent him off to hunt down those bandits. After he’d returned, between the chaos of the Hand’s Tourney and Tyrion’s abduction, he hadn’t had the time to check in on her.

“Where’s the Princess?!” Jaime demanded, drawing his sword. Rosamund pulled back behind Trystane, shaking her head, whole body trembling, and the Prince shielded her with his body unflinchingly.

“I will ask one more time, stranger,” Trystane said, voice far more imposing than a boy barely a man should possess. “Tell me who you are, and you may spend the night in the dungeon instead of going straight to the headsman’s axe.”

“I am Sir Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, and I demand to know where the true Princess Myrcella is.”

Bronn launched himself from the brush, crashing into Jaime and knocking them both to the ground. A second later, a spear whistled through the space he’d been standing not a second before. A dozen more Dornishmen appeared, led by a woman Jaime recognised as Arianne Martell, flanked by at least four women of different colours and complexions – Oberyn’s Sand-Snakes.

Jaime and Bronn scrambled to their feet, setting backs to one another.

“I hate you,” Bronn said.

“If you are the Kingslayer,” Arianne demanded in her thick Dornish accent, “I will enjoy killing you in the name of my Uncle.” She advanced on them with a vicious grin on her face, holding her hand out for someone to pass her a wicked-looking dagger. The rest of the two Dornish parties surrounded them in a circle. There was no way they were getting out of this now. 

“No stop!” Rosamund cried, pushing through the circle of men after pulling free of Trystane.

“Leave him alone.”

Arianne scoffed as Trystane pulled Rosamund behind him again. Did he actually care for the girl?

“Please. His brother got Oberyn killed. I don’t care what he’s doing here. There’s no way he’s leaving.”

“Then throw him in a cell, but please don’t kill him.”

Jaime looked into the terrified girl’s eyes and saw there her desperation. Why keep him alive? He knew the truth of her. What had she done to his daughter? How had she taken her place so well, and nobody notice? Oh, gods, how long had they been switched?

This time it was Trystane who spoke up in confusion.

“This is Jaime Lannister? Please, he looks like a hermit just come from the desert!” Okay, that wasn’t called for, even if it was the truth. “Besides, I think he would recognise you. He’s your Uncle after all.”

“How long, Rosamund?” Jaime demanded, his anger and fear feeding into one another to get the better of him. “When was the last time you switched places? What did you do to Myrcella?!”

He’d never agreed with Tyrion’s idea of the girls switching places. Dodging the guards? That was a ridiculously bad idea. But he’d said nothing when he’d seen how thrilled Myrcella had been. Had Rosamund harboured resentment the whole time? Had she killed Myrcella and taken her place?

Rosamund flinched as if struck.

“I did nothing! It was five _years_ ago! She went and got herself pregnant, then ran away! I only did what Cella told me to do!”

_Pregnant._

_Ran away._

_Five-years._

Rosamund’s eyes widened even further as she realised what she said. Trystane pulled away from her, hand falling to the knife at his belt. Arianne looked just as confused.

“Myrcella? What’s going on?” Trystane asked hesitantly. Rosamund saw his hand on the knife hilt, then started balling. She threw herself at the Prince, who seemed too shocked to do anything but catch her and let her cry into his shirt.

_Pregnant._

_Ran away._

_Five-years._

Finally, Arianne seemed to come to her senses. 

“Guards, take these men into custody and lock them in the cells. Trystane… escort Myrcella to her rooms and ensure she doesn’t leave.” She turned on her heel and stormed away as the guards grabbed a stunned Jaime by the arms and pulled his sword away. Bronn reluctantly followed suit, looking between Jaime and Rosamund’s crying form in utter confusion.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Jaime could only form one thought as they were dragged away.

_Five-years._

* * *

# Jon V

Jon hated Meereen. He detested the stink of it, and everywhere he looked, he could see the evidence of the slavery only just shattered. He simply couldn’t understand how one human being could _own_ another. How a person could genuinely believe, in his mind and his heart, that they were just superior to another person in every way, and then use that delusion to justify acts of horror. The entire city disgusted him. If it were up to him, they would simply pack the refugees onto Daenerys’ fleet and settle them in Westeros when they got back. The North could always use more workers, and he imagined the Reach did as well. Then she could set her dragons loose on the city, as she had Astapor, and leave nothing but the crows.

But Daenerys had pledged to help the Stark’s reclaim their home from Roose _fucking_ Bolton, so he waited as the ships were stocked with weapons and meats and Tyrion and Sansa sent ravens with whispered words to the Manderlys, the Martells, the Daynes and, at Sansa’s insistence, to Margaery Tyrell. He thought that, perhaps, there was something else going on there. Something he wasn’t clever enough to see maybe. Myrcella liked to tease him that he had a habit of seeing the big-picture but missing what was under his nose, and he couldn’t deny it.

And he consented to watching these abysmal and barbaric fighting matches. He and the other Starks had fought long and hard against their opening, but Myrcella had argued for it, as had Tyrion when he’d arrived. It was their northern sense of honour he supposed. Battle was not, was _never_ , a sport for entertainment. It was death and rage and hunger and terror.

Ser Jorah, a Knight disgraced and exiled from Westeros by Jon’s own father, was duelling two opponents in the pit below. The man was skilled to be sure, and he was more than capable of holding his own against even these skilled murderers. But Daenerys should have let him deliver northern justice to Mormont when she discovered his treachery. He had evaded it once already; he should not have been given a second chance. But Jon respected that she couldn’t do it. He had been her friend, her confidant, and had been with her through many hardships. 

Jon tore his eyes away from the pit and watched Daenerys for a few moments. Her hand was clenched around the arm-rest of her chair with a razor-sharp grip, eyes following Jorah with frenzied attention. Her sham husband, Loraq, sat beside her in green silks, and – had to resist the urge to shiver. Perhaps it was Arya’s paranoia rubbing off on him, but he didn’t trust the man an inch. Whether he was working with these Harpies or not remained to be seen, but he wasn’t a friend of the Queen; he was working his own game, and he thought to play Daenerys as a pawn in it. Jon didn’t like the man’s chances.

Ser Barristan and Darrio stood on either side of the Queen’s makeshift throne. Two of the three members Daenerys had so far named to her unofficial Queensguard. The third, Arya, stood at the back of the pavilion with Ghost. He liked Barristan. A lot. And it wasn’t just because he’d been teaching Jon in sword-techniques he’d never even dreamed of. It was because, more than anything, he was a man of character. He had his convictions and stuck to them through thick or thin. Darrio, Jon didn’t trust so much, which was fine, because Jon was sure Darrio would probably have murdered Jon in his sleep if he’d shown up without Myrcella. But Arya practically fawned over the guy, and he’d been teaching her several stealth tactics beneficial to her smaller frame, so Jon tolerated him.

At least Myrcella, pregnant as she was, was up in the Pyramid with little Arya. Sansa sat with Tyrion and Missandei in front of Jon, watching the field with concern. Jorah defeated one of his opponents with a well-timed parry and slash, but the second seized an opening, spearing him in the side. He stumbled, falling to his knees as the crowd called out in cheers and screams for blood and no mercy. Disgusting, the lot of them.

“You can end this,” Tyrion said sharply, turning to Daenerys as Jorah rolled away from the spearman’s follow-up lunge. 

“She cannot,” Hizdaq began, but Jon just snorted.

“She can do whatever she likes; she is the queen, you’re not.”

Hizdaq shot him a dark glare, but Jon didn’t particularly care. He may think Jorah deserving of a swift end at the cold steel of his father’s greatsword, but this was barbaric.

“Jon’s right,” Sansa said stiffly, “Say the word, your Grace.”

But Jorah gained the upper hand, rolling again under his opponent’s spear, and using the momentum to drive his blade through the man’s shoulder and out his neck. Skilled indeed. Daenerys let out a long, shuddering breath.

Heaving for breath, Jorah stumbled to his feet, the crowd launching to its feet to boo him. But the knight’s gaze was fixed on the pavilion. On the Queen. Or… actually, behind her…

“Arya!” Jon snapped, springing to his feet and spinning around. Arya turned as well, dagger flying into her hand as Darrio threw his body over Daenerys and Sir Barristan bared steel. All of them were too slow. As the Harpy jumped out of the crowd in his golden mask, knife in hand, a spear flew through the air and impaled itself in the man’s breast. The spear Sir Jorah’s opponent had born not a second before.

Arya sprang on the would-be assassin, crashing to the wooden floor with him and ripping away his mask. It did little good. As the crowd quietened and shuffled, trying to see what the commotion was, men and women in golden masks and blue-green robes appeared amongst the civilians, each one staring down at their fallen brother.

Shit.

“Protect the Queen!”

Ser Barristan’s declaration, called in a frantic tone, opened the flood-gates. The Sons of the Harpy turned on the people in the crowd, tearing them apart with swords and knives as they rushed towards the pit and the pavilion. Jon backed up to stand before Tyrion, Sansa and Missandei, Ghost launching to his feet with a growl of disorientation as he woke from his slumber. Arya sprang backwards, a dagger flying from her hand as another Harpy lunged for the pavilion. Her knife took him in the chest, and one of the Unsullied guards speared him through the throat.

The pavilion dissolved into chaos as screams of terror filled the arena as the bloodshed the men and women had been praising was turned back on them. Former slaves and former citizens both were put to the blade in the Harpies mad rush towards them. They numbered in the hundreds at least by Jon’s count, and most of the Unsullied were being battered and scattered by the panicking crowd. This had been planned to perfection. Darrio, Barristan, Jon and Arya formed a ring around Daenerys, Tyrion, Sansa and Missandei, themselves behind the front of Unsullied guards. Beyond them, Ghost snapped and attacked, ripping out throats and limbs, a monstrous white unstoppable form.

But even with Ghost, the chaos pressed in on them, and more and more men donned Harpy masks and joined the mad rush towards the pavilion. The Unsullied were forced to close in, pushed back towards the rim. Hizdaq, incredibly, was cut down in seconds. No favours amongst murderers then; who knew?

“Your Grace!”

Arya almost took Mormont’s head off with a knife. He’d climbed the wall of the pavilion despite his dozens of wounds, and was offering a hand to Daenerys. Her face was etched with panic, hyperventilating. She looked at his hand, hesitating. Then she affirmed her face and let him lift her down into the pit below.

Jon would not be taking the slavers head any time soon.

“Fall back!” Darrio called, jumping into the pit and helping Jorah lift Sansa and Missandei down with them. Tyrion, with uncharacteristic boldness, jumped on his own, and though he stumbled at the height, he returned to his feet as quickly as he’d fallen.

Barristan grabbed Jon’s arm, pulling him back towards the pit, but Jon shrugged him off.

“Go! I’ll hold them here!”

Barristan nodded, then jumped into the pit as Jorah and Darrio ushered Daenerys and the others towards the competitor’s entrance, and they disappeared into the darkness. Jon breathed a sigh of relief and stood with the line of Unsullied, sword bared, Arya beside him with her Needle.

“Jon behind us!” Arya snapped, and Jon followed her gaze. Several Unsullied had formed pockets within the stands, holding the exits and allowing the panicked people to escape. But another group were retreating back into the pit, pursued by the Harpies.

“Ghost! Into the pit!” The Direwolf spun at the command, discarding a corpse with a flick of his massive head. Then he used his powerful hind-legs to bound down into the pit in two enormous strides.

Daenerys reappeared, Barristan pulling her and Missandei along with each arm. He’d apparently lost his sword. Tyrion and Sansa were behind them, and pulling up the rear was Darrio and Jorah, duelling with two Harpies. Three more came charging out of the competitor’s entrance, racing after the Queen.

So, Jon turned and shoved Arya off the side of the pavilion. 

She called him several choice names as she fell, but she landed on top of one of the men. Her wrist-mounted daggers, _another_ gift from Darrio, sprang forth and the man’s throat sprayed blood in all directions. She then dove off and charged towards the next Harpy, screaming in rage.

Ghost, having reached the other side of the arena, barrelled head-first into the wave of Harpies, scattering them like pins and letting the Unsullied rush backwards and form a circle around the fleeing Daenerys.

“Fall back, protect the queen!” Jon yelled, and the Unsullied disengaged themselves to jump into the pit after him. He threw his sword as he fell, and the blade flew true, embedding itself in the third Harpy’s throat. Jon hit the sand and caught up to Arya, Darrio and Jorah as they retreated towards Daenerys and the others. They joined the circle, and Sansa grabbed onto the back of Jon’s shirt with a desperate hand.

_If there are any gods up there, please let all the Harpies be here. Please be none in the Pyramid. This has to be all of them._

Across the pit, the second set of doors burst open with a crash and the twisting of metal, and a dozen more Harpies came rushing towards them. Jon drew his knife, stomach sinking, turning to face them as more and more poured over the rim of the stands.

Then Jon met Ghost’s red eyes for a split-second across the battle-field.

_Forgive._

It was an impression, not an actual thought. An emotion of raw desolation and fear, unfiltered by anything else.

Ghost turned away and hurled himself at the approaching wave of Harpies. 

“NO!!”

It was over in moments. Ghost tore apart the entire troop in a rush of claws and jowls and teeth. And he was impaled with five blades while doing so.

Jon felt it all. His body seized in pain that wasn’t his own, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He felt a frigid bitter cold envelop him, then a terrible and scorching heat shattered the ice like a spear through the heart. His head hit something hard, and all Jon heard as he lost himself were the screams of men and dragons in his ears.

* * *

# Arya III

Arya watched in utter horror as Ghost flung himself at a dozen masked fucks and slaughtered them all. And he didn’t get up. As more and more of the bastards jumped down into the arena, encircling their ring of Unsullied, she tried to control her breathing as Syrio had taught her. Control was everything in a battle. So long as you stayed in balance, you remained a warrior and not a beast.

Then Jon collapsed, knife dropping to the ground, and it was only Sansa catching him that stopped his head from doing the same.

Darrio took a slice to the gut, Mormont was already limping, Barristan had claimed a spear from a fallen Unsullied and was thrusting it at anyone who drew close. The Unsullied perimeter, made up of only some two dozen, was being harried on all sides.

Her balance shattered, and she gripped her Needle like a life-line. If this was where she died, she’d go like Ghost – taking down as many of these fuckers as she could. She’d…

Fire. 

It rained down from above in a terrible storm of heat and high-pitched shrieking. The line of slavers in front of her were engulfed in red and gold flame in an instant, turned into an inferno as the largest of Daenerys three dragons, the black one, Drogon, flew overhead. The other two, Rhaegal and Viserion flanked their brother, crying out in rage and magnificence. They arced away over the stands, and belched flames from their maws, setting the entire arena aflame. Anyone who hadn’t fled, burned. 

Drogon made another pass, setting the Harpies afire as they screamed and fled back the way they came. Then he landed in the middle of the arena, trilling in fury, his cries thundering in her ears like nothing she’d ever imagined before.

The heat of it was unbearable, but Arya could no more look away than she could stop breathing as Daenerys split from the circle and strode purposely towards the dragon. He bent his head low, spreading his wings along the ground, and Daenerys, in a sort of trance, climbed atop him. Drogon raised his head, roaring in what could only be victory, then he took to the sky once more.

“Gods and heavens above,” Barristan whispered.

“Jon? Jon!” Arya finally regained her wits, spinning around to find Sansa on her knees, cradling Jon’s limp form. Arya dropped to her knees beside her.

He was lying prone, eyes rolled into the back of his head like when he warged into Ghost.

Ghost.

She looked to where he’d fallen. Just in time to see Rhaegal land on the dirt and set fire to a straggling group of Harpies trying to approach the Direwolf’s body. The dragon mewled softly, nuzzling the wolf, then delicately clamped its teeth around the hilt of one of the swords protruding from Ghost’s white fur, slowly staining red. He pulled the blade free, then set to the rest of them, snarling at anything that moved near. Jon’s eyes fluttered back to normal, then closed, head lolling sideways, but Rhaegal continued his ministrations until not a single blade of steel remained in Ghost’s body. 

Arya locked eyes with Sansa, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. Then she stood up and, hesitantly, walked towards the green-scaled beast. He huffed at her but otherwise allowed her to approach the wolf. Rhaegal leaned down and nuzzled Ghost again, then fixed a single golden eye on Arya. Her head thumped with a sudden head-ache, and she shook herself in an attempt to clear it. The dragon snorted again, before settling down in the dirt beside Ghost. Arya sat down beside him too, letting Needle fall to the dust and stay there. She wasn’t needed anymore today.

* * *

# Daenerys II

Jon had yet to speak since the pit.

Several hours had passed, and her advisors had gathered in Daenerys quarters atop the Great Pyramid. Tyrion and Sansa were debating what to do with the captured Harpies. Both agreed they should be executed, but Tyrion wanted them walked in chains all the way to Yunkai, then burned outside the city as a message. Sansa wanted them burned in Meereen, and their rotting bodies hurled over the walls of Yunkai via catapult.

The Sons of the Harpy had effectively been exorcised by the events at the Fighting Pits. Those who’d survived the dragon-fire had admitted that the slavers in Yunkai, who’d once again retaken control of the city, had been their sponsors. Daenerys’ council had suspected as much. What they hadn’t realised was that the Masters were being funded by Tywin Lannister, and it seemed Cersei had kept up with their payments.

All the death. All the bloodshed. It wasn’t about their ‘way of life’ being taken away, at least not entirely. It was about gold. Tywin had been trying to stop her getting to Westeros. Now that he was dead, Cersei was even more desperate. 

Everything she did led her back to one point. Even if she turned her back on Westeros, stayed in Slavers Bay and carved out her own nation, Westeros would never leave her alone.

Jon sat on one of Daenerys’ sofas, his head in Myrcella’s lap. His daughter, little Arya, was sitting beside him. Though oblivious to the nature of his pain – and Daenerys could only imagine the depths of it, connected to Ghost perhaps even deeper than she was to her children – the little golden-haired girl had wrapped herself around one of his arms, and was gently patting him. Her daddy was sad, so she did her part to try and make him happy again. It was a beautiful image. Her namesake stood at the door to Daenerys chambers with Sir Barristan. Neither of them would let Daenerys out of their sights. Jorah and Darrio had been forced into the infirmary with Grey Worm by Missandei, despite their desires to be standing guard as well. But neither of them could stay upright given their wounds, and so restrained they had been.

It was time. Time to finally make the journey home. She could put it off no longer. Her dragons were full-grown, and so long as Cersei Lannister controlled the Iron Throne, she and her friends and family would never be safe.

But she couldn’t leave Slavers Bay as it was. Yunkai had to be dealt with. She had tried diplomacy. She’d tried insurrection. Both had failed. Almost all the slaves had fled the city and joined her host the first time she’d seized Yunkai, and the rest had fled after she’d retaken it. All that remained were the Masters and some who’d been neither slave nor owner – a precious few indeed. She’d given them two chances to change.

They would not get a third.

She took a breath, standing up from her seat, and Tyrion and Sansa’s argument fell away. She strode out onto the balcony, the others hesitantly following. Drogon was perched on the side of the Pyramid, watching the night with eagle eyes. Viserion was combing the skies – no doubt trying to see any threat. Rhaegal was nowhere to be seen, but she knew where he was. He would still be in the Fighting Pits. He had refused to leave them.

They were afraid. She could feel that, though she wasn’t quite sure how. They knew they’d almost come too late. And would have if Jon had not summoned them. How he’d done so illuded the others, but Daenerys had her suspicions. Ghost… he had gotten to Jon before her children had. Maybe such magics could only link one creature at a time. Or perhaps it was his Old Gods fighting with whatever power birthed dragons from stone and fire. The Direwolf had sacrificed himself, severing his link with Jon, and allowing him to warg the dragons by accident in his desperation.

It didn’t make her feel any better, and she couldn’t decide whether she should mention it to Jon or not.

“Drogon!” She called into the night, and the great-black scaled dragon launched himself off the side of the Pyramid. His wings stirring up a phantom wind as he lowered himself to level with the balcony and looked at her with those big red eyes. He knew what she wanted to do.

Jon stepped beside her, Myrcella still holding his arm. The Princess – who in their short time together had become one of the closest friends she’d ever had – looked almost as bad as Jon did, and Daenerys had to remind herself that she had been with Ghost almost as long as Jon himself had, even if she had no magical talent of her own.

“You’re going to burn it to the ground, aren’t you?” He asked in that solemn way of his.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming with you.” 

Before she’d even answered, a dragon’s cry echoed through the city, and from the direction of the fighting pits, Rhaegal rose up into the air.

“Jon… you’ve never done something like this before. I know you’re hurting… I am too… but…” Myrcella stuttered.

“They had their chance, Cella. I won’t make the same mistakes my father did. These people have no honour, but I still have mine.”

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Barristan and Arya said in unison. They had moved from the main door to stand on either side of the balcony arch, Sansa, little Arya and Tyrion behind them.

“I agree,” Tyrion said, hands in the pockets of his tunic. “It’s the only way. The Masters will never give up, even without Lannister gold. If we’re to march on Westeros, we cannot leave a group ready to stab us in the back.” 

Daenerys climbed up on the balcony railing, then onto Drogon’s back, feeling the warm vibrations echoing from his chest. Maybe she should have a saddle made? He turned his head towards her and gave her the draconic equivalent of a flat-stare. _Am I a horse?_ It seemed to say.

She rolled her eyes, but let Drogon pull himself upwards once more, allowing space for Rhaegal to approach. Jon and Myrcella spoke several more words she couldn’t hear, then he hugged his daughter, and hesitantly mounted the green-scaled dragon.

“You alright?” She called to him. He sat staring astride the dragon for a few moments, hand pressed to his scales. Then he sat up and nodded sharply to her. His eyes were still grey rather than white, as they were when he warged. Maybe the process was different? She supposed they would learn in time.

Viserion flew overhead, roaring into the night, and his brothers took wing and followed out across the city, then over the sands beyond.

In less than an hour, the dead of midnight over the city of Yunkai was shattered by dragon fire. Daenerys didn’t know how many died in the storm they created, but the screams of men burning stalked her nightmares forevermore.

* * *

# Jaime II

The Dornish guards came for him within a day. Bronn was not invited, but then again, neither of them had expected he would be.

He was guided by several hulking men to what he assumed was Prince Doran’s solar, a large open plan room in one of the castle’s copulas. Cushions were strewn across the floor, and the Dornish sun glowed through the windows. 

Doran sat in his wheelchair, Trystane on one side, Arianne on the other. Oberyn’s Sand Snakes were scattered around the room in various positions, though only three of them seemed to be carrying weapons.

Finally, Rosamund was standing in the centre of the room, flanked by two guards just as Jaime was. She no longer looked fearful, merely dejected.

“Kingslayer,” Doran said, nodding his head in respect. Jaime did likewise, not really knowing what was going to happen next.

“If you wished to visit your niece, all you need have done was send a raven. We would have been more than happy to entertain you.”

“Forgive me, Prince Doran,” Jaime said, “But it was made quite clear to me that, should I step foot in Dorne, I would most likely be executed.”

Doran frowned. Did he not know the message Cersei had received? Of the elaborate lion carving with a spear stuck through its heart, mane crafted from what had to be a lock of Myrcella’s hair, in a box etched with the sun and spear sigil of House Martell. He seemed confused for several seconds before realisation slid across his face, and he turned a pointed gaze towards one of the Sand Snakes.

“Well, Obara? What did you do?” The eldest of the Sand Snakes, who appeared the most similar to Oberyn in appearance, withered under her Uncle’s glare.

“I sent the bitch queen a warning. That is all. I never threatened anyone.” She hesitated. “Well, I never threatened anyone specifically. In a general sense… maybe.”

Doran groaned, then turned towards Arianne.

“Please tell me you had nothing to do with this? I know you’ve been angry, plotting behind my back for vengeance.” Arianne didn’t look at her father. She kept her eyes locked on Jaime.

“No. I can honestly say I had no idea.”

Doran snorted. “What _was_ your plan then?”

Arianne winced.

“I wanted to Crown Myrcella. By the rights of Dorne, she is next in line. She’d make a better leader than Tommen at least.”

Jaime couldn’t fault that logic. He loved Tommen and Myrcella both, but his youngest son cared little for ruling more than his cats. Myrcella… she was the best of Cersei, with none of her venom or vice. She _would_ have made a good queen. 

Doran was nodding as if he’d expected as such.

“By the rights of Dorne, not the rest of Westeros. Perhaps the Starks would have backed you, had any still lived, but the others would never. And it seems any movement involving Myrcella is irrelevant, given what’s recently come to life.” He turned his gaze on Jaime.

“I apologise for my nieces’ actions Lannister, but I cannot disagree with them. I am just as angry over my brother’s death – I simply hide it better – and I am using all my will not to order your head separated from your neck this very moment. Even so, I am sorry you felt the need to come and ‘rescue’ your niece from us. In Dorne, we do not blame children for the mistakes of their parents.”

It was not hard to decipher Doran’s meaning.

“However, your arrival and actions have forced a secret into the light. One I must address.” He wheeled his chair forward so that he was directly in front of Myrcella. Trystane looked incredibly conflicted, Arianne simply intrigued.

“Tell me honestly and truthfully, are you Princess Myrcella? Does the Kingslayer speak the truth?”

Rosamund hesitated, then, whole body shivering, she shook her head once.

“Then speak. Who are you? Where is the Princess? I will not harm you; unless you have done some harm to the real Myrcella.”

“I…” she swallowed, then began her tale. “My name is Rosamund. I was her handmaiden when we travelled to Winterfell… it was almost six years ago now I think. My lady and I… we look virtually identical, so we would switch places often to fool people. Even the Queen couldn’t tell us apart.”

“My lady… she met a boy, Ned Stark’s bastard, and they fell in love. She fell pregnant, and we knew that her mother would have the boy and the bastard babe killed if she found out. Lord Tyrion helped Jon and Myrcella flee to Essos, and I replaced the Princess permanently on her orders, though I admit part of why I agreed was to escape the fate my father envisioned for me.”

Pregnant. Myrcella had gotten _pregnant_ with the bastard. He knew they’d spent time together in Winterfell… but he’d never imagined she would do something like that. He’d thought her smarter. 

_But doesn’t love make people do stupid things?_

_‘Hypocrite,’_ Cersei’s voice seemed to whisper in his mind.

“So you’ve been lying to us the whole time?” Trystane asked, voice trembling. He looked like someone who’d just had his entire life turned on its head. He really _had_ fallen in love with Rosamund, Jaime realised with a shock.

“Trystane… I _never_ wanted to lie to you. I swear it,” she begged meekly. “But if I ever spoke the truth… my lady would be hunted… and… and I’d lose you. I _love_ you, please believe that.”

“Where is the Princess Myrcella… and her bastard child? Where did they go?” Doran asked softly, sympathy etched across his face.

“I believe I can answer that my lords and ladies,” a new voice said, one Jaime new quite well. He spun around and watched as Varys, the Spider, former Master of Whisperers, strolled into the room in flowing golden robes.

“Prince Doran, I come before you as an emissary from Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men; Empress of Meereen. She sails at this moment across the Narrow Sea with three dragons, intending to reclaim her family’s throne. The true Princess Myrcella stands with her, as do the surviving Stark children and armies numbering in the thousands. They intend to finally bring peace to Westeros and get justice for House Stark, House Targaryen and House Martell. What say you, Doran of House Nymerios Martell? Will you side with the Dragonlords once again?”

_No!_ Jaime thought desperately. He looked towards Doran, but his heart only dropped further. Doran was _grinning_. He’d played them all for fools. 

Arianne realised it too.

“You genius,” she breathed, “You knew the whole time that Daenerys was coming. That’s why you waited.”

“Tell Queen Daenerys that Sunspear is open to her, Lord Varys,” Doran announced, “House Martell is at her service.”

He turned towards Jaime.

“Throw him in the cells, and ensure he doesn’t escape.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have two questions to ask you all.
> 
> The first, is what do you guys want to happen to Margaery? Because we have no idea what to do with her aside from knowing that in this world she’s the same age as Jon and Myrcella, not Natalie Dormer.
> 
> Second, we think there are maybe two chapters left (we say maybe, because there were only supposed to be three chapters in total, and we’re already at four with no end in sight…). So, do you guys want the happy ending where all our main characters live or the Game of Thrones type bittersweet ending where some of them die? We’re willing to do it. We killed Ghost, so don’t think we won’t.


	5. Volume V

#  _ **Volume V** _

* * *

* * *

# Margaery I

She couldn’t look in the mirror.

It wasn’t the shallowness of her cheeks or the faded, dull look in her eyes. It wasn’t the bruises on her wrists or her hair, which she’d shorn off at the shoulders.

When she looked in the mirror, she saw a hypocrite.

For how long had she pretended to care for the small-folk, endearing herself to them? Oh, sure, she honestly did care for them – more so than most lords by far – but her trips to Fleebottom to feed the poor and destitute had been facades. Illusions to better her own reputation. And it had been that reputation that had seen her released from the High Sparrow’s dungeons.

 _“The Gods have spoken, Queen Margaery,”_ Cersei’s sham High Septon had said in that condescending yet falsely warm way of his that now gave her nightmares.

_“How?”_

_“Through the voice of the people, their greatest tool of all.”_

It had not been her father that achieved her release. It had not been her grandmother. It had not been her husband, the King. It had been the very people she’d used, calling on the Sparrow to spare her for her good deeds.

The person she saw in the mirror was a monster.

She remembered a conversation she’d had with Sansa as she was trying to marry her to Willis or Loras and finally get her out of the prison of Kings Landing. She had, out of curiosity, asked the northern girl why she still prayed to the Old Gods if she’d forsaken the New.

_“I… My father kept the Old Gods, my mother, the New. I… I spent so long trying to be the Lady my mother wished me to be. I forsook the Old Gods because mother said they were uncultured, I scorned Northern virtues of honour and dignity because the South called them frivolous. I even cut out my own brother because of my mother’s fear of bastards.”_

_“But what has my mother’s teaching ever done for me? The Seven, and those that keep them, have butchered my family and friends. My father lost his head because… because I betrayed him to Cersei. Because I lived in this world where honour meant less than silks and jewels. The North remembers the value of honour. I don’t think the Old Gods would care to listen to me anymore. I don’t deserve it. But if they do… I pray that, when the time comes, I can make the right choice next time. That maybe I still have some shred of honour left.”_

Margaery hadn’t thought of those words in a long time. What was honour but a willful ignorance of the real world?

But, after three marriages – shunted between a fool, a sadist and a lackwit – and months of imprisonment with not a single visitor from those she’d thought her friends, she thought, maybe, just maybe, she’d realised what Sansa had.

Honour was a belief that, deep down, men and women really cared about decency and justice and love and would follow it if given a chance.

The people of Kings Landing had freed her from the Sept, not because she was the Queen, but because she alone had taken the time to try and help them. _That_ was honour.

The Old Gods _had_ been listening to Sansa; they had given her one last choice. Her sister and brother had infiltrated the Red Keep to rescue her, and instead of waiting to see if the plan would work and she’d be married to Loras (which she couldn’t have known was going to be broken the next day by Tywin), she had vanished into the night.

Now it was Margaery’s turn. She didn’t know if the Old Gods were taking pity on her, or if it was merely a coincidence, but she had her own choice at hand now. Become Queen Margaery again; return to the courtly world of intrigue and games and jewels and lies, the world her grandmother had spent so long grooming her for. Or she could, for the first time in her life, make the honourable choice. Maybe, then, she could look in the mirror without flinching away, and sleep at night without awakening to screams.

“The dragon-bitch won’t take Kings Landing. So what if she has dragons? Every report says she considers herself a queen of the ‘people’. She won’t dare use them against the city. We can starve out her barbarians and heathens.” Cersei said, rolling her eyes to say what she thought of the idea of a ‘queen of the people’.

They were sitting in the Chamber of the Hand, gathered around what had once been the Small Council table: Her grandmother Olenna, her father Mace, Cersei, Grand Maester Pycelle, Littlefinger (newly minted Lord of the Vale after Lady Arryn’s ‘tragic’ death), new Master of War Randyll Tarly, and Tommen’s Hand Kevin Lannister. Tommen was sitting in the corner playing with his cats. Margaery was seated between her father and grandmother, simply nodding at the right moments, not really engaging. Her mind was on the scroll in the pocket sewn into her sleeve.

“She doesn’t need to take Kings Landing,” Kevin snapped at her. “Her Dothraki and Unsullied can just march through the countryside. All she has to do is offer the small-folk food she’s brought from Essos, and they’ll flock to her. The longer she marches, the more of our own people will flock to her. _That_ is where the dragons come in.”

“However, she probably doesn’t know the full state of the famine spreading across the country,” Tarly pointed out, arms folded as he leaned back in his seat. “With any luck, she’ll exceed her own food stores relatively quickly. We might be able to starve her out. Then we can attack her weakened forces.”

“We need to attack her before she arrives and can put the barbarians on the field,” Olenna stated flatly, “Where will she land?”

“Dragonstone,” Kevin answered immediately. “It gives her a perfect springboard to launch an attack on Kings Landing or Storm’s End and provides control of the Crownlands and the Gullet. Most of the Houses there will flock to her side as well. They’re the Blood of Old Valyria and were never friends to Stannis.”

“Then we should send out ships to meet them. Ambush her as she arrives on Dragonstone,” Mace said.

“For once my lackwit son actually speaks some sense,” Olenna said. “How many ships are left in the royal navy, given Stannis stole most of them when he attacked the city?”

Margaery’s father looked down at his ledgers. “We can field a fleet of half-a-hundred.”

Kevin groaned.

“That’ll have to do. If they’re stationed correctly, it won’t matter.”

“What of the Noble Houses? Will any of them support this girl?” Tarly asked.

Maester Pycelle made one of his aghast snuffling gestures.

“No one would support a foreign invader against King Tommen!” he exclaimed.

Everyone just rolled their eyes.

“We have no way of knowing how much work Varys did for her while he was still in the Red Keep, and we know Tyrion and Ser Barristan Selmy are with her. Who knows what plans the three of them have concocted?” Littlefinger said, shrugging his shoulders. Then he turned in his chair and looked towards Tommen.

“You will, of course, have the support of the Knights of the Vale, Your Grace.”

Tommen either didn’t hear the whoremonger, or ignored him, getting up to chase Ser Pounce towards the balcony, shouting as he did so. He was not having a good day today. After spending as much time as she had with him, she was certain he had a mental condition of some description. Sometimes he was incredibly alert and able, seeming knowledgeable beyond his fourteen years. At other times… his childishness washed all of that away.

“Yes, yes,” Tarly said, not at all caring for Littlefinger’s display. “Arryn, Tyrell, Lannister and Baratheon. The Starks are dead and gone, and the Tullys may as well be. Of the Great Houses, that just leaves the Martells. What will Dorne do?”

“They wouldn’t dare go against…” Pycelle began again, but Cersei silenced him.

“Oh, be quiet you blithering idiot.”

“Doran said he had no intention of seeking retribution for his brother,” Kevin said, “He was killed fairly in a trial by combat before the gods, and he assured he would keep Oberyn’s children in line.”

Cersei scoffed.

“The Dornish are just a bunch of sand-worshipping fools. Even if they did support this dragon-bitch, it wouldn’t matter. She still needs the support of the Great Houses, and we’re all united against her.”

“There are plenty of Houses eager to rise up,” Olenna reminded her, “Hightower, Dayne, Joyce, even your new friends the Freys and Boltons might throw their lots in with her if they see the winds changing.”

“We made the Freys,” Cersei sneered, “We can unmake them just as fast.”

“And the Boltons are distracted by this supposed Wildling threat marching on the Wall. They don’t have time to deal with the Targaryen girl, nor would the North follow them if they did,” Littlefinger said. “The North remembers, and they still hate the Dragons for what they did to Rickard and Brandon Stark. Between that, these Wildlings, and the lack of supplies for their coming winter, the North will be in tatters before the year ends.”

Silence settled on the table, and the meeting seemed to come to an end. Tarly stood up and gave everyone a look that said that he clearly found them wanting.

“I’ll march the Tyrell army to Storm’s End; the Lannister forces can stay here.”

The others stood up as well.

“I’ll prepare plans for the naval ambush,” Kevin said, “Baelish, return to the Eyrie and prepare the Knights of the Vale. I have a feeling we’ll need them.” The Lords Paramount and Small Council members departed without so much as a glance to Tommen or Margaery. Even her grandmother didn’t speak to her, too absorbed in her own thoughts.

Once she was sure they were all gone, Margaery rose and left the room, wandering aimlessly through the halls. No Kingsguard accompanied her. Cersei insisted on having three with her at all times, given her fear of the Faith, and Tommen had the other two. They had yet to name other replacements, so Margaery went without. She didn’t mind. She didn’t matter enough to warrant such protection. She was damaged goods. It didn’t matter if she’d been forced to do what she’d done, or if her imprisonment at the hands of the Faith had been because she stood up for her brother. She was broken. Three husbands, a queen thrice over. And she was only nineteen name-days old.

She was supposed to be a queen that wielded real power; real influence. Instead, she just… just couldn’t will herself to care. The intrigue and courtly gossip she’d found so fascinating once was now laid to bare. It was all just greedy lords and ladies fighting for the scraps at the table while ordinary people suffered.

Even her grandmother, the famous Queen of Thornes, was just as culpable.

Eventually, she found herself standing at the gate to the Red Keep’s Godswood. How long had it been since someone tended this place? The stone path was overgrown with weeds, dead branches and leaves littering the ground.

Feeling an odd tugging she couldn’t quite understand, she walked deep into the Godswood. Highgarden didn’t have a Godswood, though the entire city was filled with gardens. Sansa said this garden was nothing compared to the foreboding and powerful one in Winterfell. This wood, Margaery thought, was just sad.

After walking longer than she’d intended too, she found herself sitting on a fallen tree. Ensuring there was no one to see her, she pulled the scroll from her sleeve and unrolled it. Two wax seals were stamped on the paper – one of a three-headed dragon, and one of a Direwolf’s head.

_Margaery,_

_As miraculous as it might seem. I’m alive. It has been a long journey, and I am not sure if you will even receive this message. Varys says he can get it to you, but even he admits his knowledge from within the Red Keep is limited these days. Are you okay? I heard only that you had been taken captive by these Sparrows, then released? I am not sure of the details, but if there is anything I can do, please tell me. You did so much for me when you didn’t need too, and it’s only fair that I repay you in any way I can._

_I am taking a risk reaching out to you like this, but I know I can trust you if anyone. I am in Meereen with Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and we will soon set sail for Westeros. She has three Dragons, and she means to retake the Seven Kingdoms and finally put an end to the horrors of the past five years._

_I want your help._

_You have been burned so many times, just as we have. Surely there is more for you than just to be handed from husband to husband? You’re amazing and a genius. With you on our side, we could turn the tide. Win this war with as little blood as possible. Westeros has seen enough death. Daenerys is a noble ruler, one worth following. We are an army of the forsaken; the cast out. And now, we will have our revenge, with Fire and Blood._

_This is your chance to do something for you, and not because your family ordered you too._

_There is a man called Gendry who works as a Blacksmith on the Street of Steel. He is one of Varys’ agents. Ask him why wolves howl in the dark, and he will get a message to me._

_Love, Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

She looked up through the canopy, and closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths.

And at that moment, she thought that, maybe, she could feel something on the wind she hadn’t before.

This was her decision. Margaery could only hope she did as Sansa had done, and made the right one.

Two days later, hooded and dressed in a dirty brown dress, Margaery Tyrell, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, approached a man with short-cropped brown hair wearing a dirty workers smock, slaving away over a forge on the Street of Steel.

“Gendry?” The man looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Who wants to know?”

“Mar… A friend,” She answered anxiously. “Why do wolves howl in the dark?”

He chuckled softly to himself.

“To remind each other they’re never alone.”

* * *

# Myrcella V

Myrcella took the final step into the torchlit corridor of Sunspear’s prison. She nodded to the guard, and he passed her his torch, then turned and fled. Honestly, she couldn’t blame him. Steeling herself, she walked down the hall until she came to a stop outside a single cell.

“Come to apologise again?” the prisoner asked, “or better yet, have you finally come to your senses?”

“Uncle Jamie?”

Jamie’s head snapped up, looking through the bars towards her with those emerald eyes she had long since forgotten.

“Myrcella?” He whispered. “Is it actually you this time?”

“It’s me.”

“Seven Hells! How did you… You’re here with that foreign Queen, aren’t you?”

“You stand in the presence of Princess Myrcella of the House Targaryen, Lady of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West; and you will show respect to the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms,” Myrcella snapped, her anger getting the better of her.

Jamie snorted.

“She’s not a queen of anything yet. Why should I show her any respect?”

“She’s queen of more than you are, and done a great deal more to earn that respect than you ever will.”

Jamie clenched his jaw and rattled the chains binding his arms and legs. Only then did he notice that Myrcella’s belly was swelled with pregnancy.

“Rosamund was telling the truth, then? You really did get pregnant with a bastard. And then you ran across the Narrow Sea. I thought we raised you better than that.”

Now it was Myrcella’s turn to snort, rolling her eyes in derision.

“You didn’t raise me at all, ‘ _father’_ ,” she said, lacing each word with all the anger and hurt that she’d felt upon learning the truth. “My mother is a madwoman clutching for a power she never had in the first place. She doesn’t care who she kills, or how many lives she destroys. Just so long as at the end of the day she’s the one sitting on that bloody throne. And you? You’re just as bad as she is. You’ve been enabling her for years. When I was little, I _adored_ you. I thought you were everything I wished but never could be. But now I see that you’re really just a broken man: no lion, but a dog on a leash. You have no right to call me daughter. Why did you come here?”

Jamie narrowed his eyes at her.

“I came here to rescue _you_. The Martells’ said they were going to kill you. I came to _save_ you. And what do I find but Rosamund pretending to be you? That you’ve disappeared for five years without telling anyone. Forsaking your duties to live with a bastard and produce one of your own. And now what? You’re siding with some foreign invader to kill your family?”

“You’re one to talk. I’m just as much a bastard as my daughter is. As much a bastard as my husband is. That is what you made me. But now… now I am a princess in truth. My daughter will be Queen of the seven kingdoms one day. What will you be then uncle? You’re just lucky I convinced the Queen to let _me_ come down here and talk to you. She wanted to feed you to the dragons. Had some pretty convincing reasoning as well.”

Myrcella turned away from the cell and started to walk away, but just before she left eyeshot, she paused.

“Her name is Arya,” she whispered, “You’re grand-daughter. Not that you asked.”

Then, holding the tears in her eyes, she marched back the way she came.

* * *

Several hours later, Myrcella was bouncing little Arya on her lap in the centre of one of Sunspear’s many water gardens. Doran Martell sat in his mechanical chair a short distance away, Queen Daenerys beside him in a dress of the lightest silk. A few paces away from them, Tyrion was embroiled in an impassioned debate with Arianne Martell about ways to convince the high-lords of mainland Westeros to accept not only a female ruler but a female heir. Both of them had huge grins on their faces, and she was sure she’d heard Arianne say, “I can see why my uncle liked you,” at one point.

Myrcella was sitting out of the deliberations for the moment. She was just too rattled by her conversation with Uncle Jaime to pay much attention.

A hand came to rest against Myrcella’s shoulder, and she found herself staring into a face she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Ros!”

She sprang to her feet, Arya falling off with a squawk, and pulled her cousin into a warm embrace. They pulled apart a few seconds later, and Rosamund hesitantly laid a hand on Myrcella’s engorged belly.

“Again?”

“Again,” she laughed.

Rosamund looked down at Arya, who was now staring up at her nigh-identical cousin with suspicion.

“Well hello there little one,” Rosamund said, kneeling next to Myrcella’s daughter and beaming.

“Hi.”

“Gods Cella… she’s the spitting image of us at that age.”

Myrcella laughed again. “I know,” she said, pulling her daughter into her leg. “There’s barely any Jon in her. I’m hoping the next one will look more like him.” She paused. “Well, barely might be going too far…”

Rosamund’s jaw fell open, and she turned towards Arya.

“It’s true then? You can control the… the dragons?”

Drogon chose that moment to soar over the gardens, his shadow briefly obscuring the sun. Rosamund, Doran and Arianne all shivered.

“I can. Dad doesn’t like me riding them, though.” Rosamund’s eyes widened, and Myrcella laughed yet again.

Arya, seemingly getting over her shyness, started chattering away to Rosamund for the next several minutes about her favourite parts of the dragons, until Missandei appeared near the entrance to the garden.

“Your grace?”

Daenerys looked up from her conversation with Doran, raising an eyebrow in question.

“There’s a young man here, looking for Lord Jon?”

Myrcella frowned and locked eyes with Daenerys.

“Well, let’s see him then.”

Missandei bowed and disappeared, before returning with a young man with pale silver hair clothed in a surcoat featuring a sword and star-emblazoned across it. Strapped to his back was a thick longsword with a seemingly mundane steel hilt, though it was engraved with several patterns she didn’t recognise.

The young man bowed as Daenerys approached.

“Your grace,” Doran spoke up, “may I present Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, the newly declared Sword of the Morning.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my Lord. What brings you to Sunspear on such a fine day?” Daenerys asked, gesturing for Lord Edric to rise. The young Lord cast a look around the gardens, face contorting into a frown until his gaze locked onto Myrcella.

“Your Grace. Truly it is an honour to finally meet you. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you since my return from the Riverlands, and if you are willing to accept them, I will pledge the forces of Starfall to your cause.”

Daenerys beamed.

“Gladly do I accept you and yours Lord Dayne, Sword of the Morning. A formidable and proud title to claim, steeped in histories deeper even than the Doom of Valyria. Is Dawn truly forged from star metal?”

Lord Edric bowed his head, then drew the blade at his back, revealing a weapon as pale as milk, but with the consistency of glass.

“It is,” he said, grinning, “The edge never dulls, no matter what strikes the blade, and I’ve even seen it shatter through swords of ordinary steel. But I think the most amazing thing is how bloody light the thing is!” He offered the blade’s hilt to Daenerys, and she clasped it for a moment.

“Wow…” she muttered, genuinely impressed. “It’s like holding simple silverware. Incredible.”

She handed the sword back, and he sheathed it once more.

“The warriors of Starfall stand ready to aid you in whatever your next plan may be your Grace. But, if I may ask, I heard a rumour that a man named Jon Targaryen, formerly Jon Snow, was a member of your party? I would very much like to speak with him if he is here.”

Myrcella rose to her feet, pulling Arya behind her legs.

“Yes, Jon Targaryen is a member of my party. However, I’m afraid he isn’t here at present. You are welcome to speak with his wife, however, the Princess Myrcella.”

Keeping Arya behind her, Myrcella stepped forward, standing a few paces behind Daenerys left side. Lord Edric bowed to her, and Myrcella reciprocated with a curtsey.

“A pleasure as well, Princess,’ he said, though she could tell from his expression his heart wasn’t in it. “A pity, I had hoped to meet him.”

“Why?” Myrcella asked, not sure she liked where this was going. “Forgive my boldness, my Lord, but what interest is a bastard of the North, even a legitimised one, to the Lord of Starfall?”

Lord Edric didn’t answer immediately, though, when he did, Myrcella’s heart nearly stopped beating.

“It is a curious story I will admit. But, if I am honest with you, I had hoped to meet the man I would consider my brother in many ways, though we have never met. You see, a Snow he may be named, but I know for certain that the bastard raised by Eddard Stark was born here in Dorne. For the woman who nursed him was the same as mine own.”

* * *

# Sansa I

The return of House Stark to the North was not heralded by trumpets or cries of glee. In fact, the arrival of Sansa, Jon and Arya was almost missed entirely by the occupants of White Harbour. They came on only a single ship, sailing under no banner or flag.

All that being said, the dragon flying overhead was kind of hard to miss.

Jon had argued that sending Rhaegal to announce their arrival was slightly overdramatic. Sansa thought it was perfect.

The green-scaled dragon trilled into the frigid air as he made another circle over the city. Bells were tolling beyond, and the frantic screams and shouts of small-folk running for shelter were easy to hear. But the ship bearing the Stark family home sailed on, docking against the wharf.

Wyman Manderly, old and fat, stood on the docks waiting for them. He was surrounded by armed guards, all of them with hands gripped tightly on their weapons, casting anxious glances towards the sky.

“Lord Manderly,” Sansa said, walking down the gangway as the sail hands tied off the ship. Jon, Arya and Sansa’s own guard followed behind them. She curtseyed to the man, whose face was about as white as the moon.

“You… you brought one of those… those _things?_ ” He whispered, terror dripping from his voice.

“We did. His name is Rhaegal, and he’s our not so secret weapon. I’ve seen him in action, and he can lay waste to entire armies in a matter of seconds. And that’s on his own.”

Wyman swallowed, and Sansa gestured behind her back to Jon. They’d been practising this manoeuvre on the journey north.

Jon raised a hand to the sky and closed his eyes. The gesture was unnecessary, but they’d agreed more than just a mental command to the dragon would be needed to prove they could control the animals to the lords of the North.

“Lord Manderly, may I introduce my sister, Arya Stark, and my brother, Jon Snow of the House Targaryen.”

Wyman’s gaze snapped immediately to Jon. He opened his eyes, and Rhaegal stopped his circling, banking back towards the ocean.

“I’ve sent him off hunting,” Jon said, “He’s done enough showboating for one night.”

Sansa suppressed a wince. He did not like theatrics and deferred to her in this only because Myrcella had asked him too. Not for the first time, Sansa wondered how her life would have been different if she hadn’t scorned the princess when they first met. Had seen through Joffrey and Cersei’s façade of deceit. She took a shallow breath and counted to five, as Missandei had taught her.

“Jon Snow… I remember you from Winterfell… a long time ago now. You can control that thing?”

Jon stepped up beside Sansa.

“Yes. Within reason at least. He won’t attack anyone I don’t tell him too. Your people are safe if that’s what you mean.”

Wyman nodded, and as Sansa, Myrcella and Daenerys had hoped, some of the fear in his body faded away, replaced by intrigue.

“Whole armies…” he whispered, before coughing and speaking up once more. “You’re a Targaryen then? How?”

“We think it’s through his mother,” Sansa answered, taking control of the conversation once again. “Our Lord Father never told Jon who his mother was, and as far as we know, he never told anyone else either. But Jon, and his daughter, can control all three dragons, so he must have dragon blood in him somehow.”

It was the truth, and the truth was the best possible story they could come up with. Proof that Jon could control the dragons meant he had to have Targaryen blood – not something that the North would appreciate. However, not knowing where that blood came from, and growing up as Ned Stark’s bastard would hopefully override any lingering hatred for the Mad King. It was their connection to Daenerys that was the most dangerous and potentially alienating factor. But if Sansa played her cards right…

“So, you want us to bend the knee to this Dragon Queen?”

“No,” Sansa answered quickly. “The North has suffered enough. We’re here, with Daenerys blessing, for revenge on the Boltons for slaughtering our family. We’re here to save the North before winter firmly sets in and kills us all. The Starks… King Robb… he lost the North, and with it our right to lead it forevermore. But the North is still our home, and we’ll lay down our lives to see its people protected. Once we’ve freed the North from the Boltons’ and reclaimed our home, it’ll be up to the surviving lords and ladies to decide who should rule, or if we stay a united country at all.”

Wyman and Sansa locked eyes, scrutinising one another. He was no doubt searching for a sign of a lie in her eyes. He would find none, despite the fact every word had been entirely false. She had no intention of letting the North remain independent. It couldn’t. Not if the war-torn and destitute country wanted any chance of surviving the winter.

“What of Winterfell?” Manderly queried.

“With all the male sons of House Stark dead, it is mine by right,” Sansa said carefully. “If the Boltons haven’t killed everyone in the keep and Wintertown around it, I will see to it that they’re cared for, as well as I can.”

Wyman broke Sansa’s gaze and turned to Jon.

“You just going to let your sister talk over you, boy? You’re the one with the dragon after all.”

Jon shot the man a flat stare.

“My place is with my wife, the rightful Warden of the West and Lady of Casterly Rock, Princess Myrcella Waters of the Houses Lannister and Targaryen,” he said in that stern and commanding voice of his that gaze Sansa the shivers every time she heard it. “And my daughter, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to Queen Daenerys.”

Wyman’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Princess Myrcella? I heard she was in Dorne, and why would your kid be heir to the Dragon Queen…” he trailed off, no doubt coming to the correct conclusion on his own.

“Your kid can control the dragons too? A Stark on the Iron Throne?”

“Yes.”

Ever blunt her half-brother was.

Wyman nodded to himself several times, then finally looked to Arya.

“And what about you, then? What’s your role in all this, Arya Stark?”

Sansa glanced back at her sister, dressed in stiff leathers and a light cloak despite the cold. Her Bravossi blade, Needle, was strapped to her back, and three daggers hung from her waist. Sansa also knew two knives were strapped to the inside of her wrists, a trick Dario Naharis had taught her. Sansa loved her sister and was undoubtedly in awe of how much dedication she directed to her stealth and fighting abilities. But she’d be lying if she said Arya didn’t scare the living crap out of her. She appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast, and spent almost every waking moment training and fighting. She had become so single-minded Myrcella and Jon had forced her to see a mind-healer in Meereen. The nurse had come out of the meeting trembling and inconsolable, refusing to explain what Arya had said inside. They’d all tried to help her, to coax her out of the animalistic rage she’d curated for herself, but nothing seemed to work.

“The Boltons are all yours,” Arya said in a dull and emotionless tone. “The Freys are mine.”

Sansa suppressed another wince.

“Ur hum, well, alright then,” Wyman said awkwardly. Rhaegal gave one final trill into the night, then vanished over the horizon. With the dragon gone, everyone on the peer relaxed a great deal.

“Alright. The children of Ned Stark, be that woman or bastard, are always welcome in White Harbour, and I’m loyal to House Stark. Always. And Gods be damned do I want those Bolton cunts gone. I’ll help you fight against these fuckers for sure, and a lot of the other Houses will too. I was… To be honest, I’ve already been whispering to some of the others. The Hornwoods and the Mormonts both want Roose and his bastard dog Ramsey dead, and I think I can tip the Glovers if I can tell old Robert we’ve got three Starks and a dragon on our side.” He paused then, scratching his beard and giving Arya another look.

“I should say, my lady, uh, Roose Bolton’s been saying he’s captured yourself and married you to his bastard.”

Arya scoffed. “I’d sooner shove a sword through his balls.” Wyman laughed, though it wasn’t as hearty as it probably could have been.

“Yes, well… Quite right.”

“Lord Manderly,” Sansa interrupted, “We’ve had a long journey, and if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Oh, of course, of course. I’ll have my men escort you up to New Castle.” He turned and led the procession onto the mainland.

“One more thing Lady Stark,” Wyman said, drawing a raven-scroll from his robes.

“A raven arrived for you this morning; from Kings Landing.”

He handed it to her, and Sansa frowned in confusion. Not at the broken seal, indicating he’d read the contents – she’d have considered him a fool if he hadn’t – but for the location. Why would anyone in Kings Landing send a message to her?

She unrolled the message and stared at the elegant writing on the thin parchment.

_‘Wolves howl in the dark to remind each other they’re never alone. And people often forget that the most beautiful roses hide the sharpest thorns. What can I do?’_

* * *

# Tyrion IV

Tyrion’s ability to persuade people to do what he wanted would never cease to amaze him.

“How did you convince me to go along with this?” Edric Dayne asked in a hoarse whisper as their force of Unsullied climbed up through the manhole and into the fortress of Casterly Rock. Grey Worm stood next to them, helmet closed around his face, spear in hand, ushering soldier after soldier up the ladder and into what had once been Tyrion’s quarters. It’s current occupants, a Lannister so obscure even Tyrion didn’t know his name, had craped himself as he was gagged and thrown back down the drain. The fat blond was currently sitting, bound and unconscious, a little way down the secret passageway.

“I appealed to your sense of honour and duty. You couldn’t resist rescuing a young maiden from the fortress when I asked you.”

“Ah yes,” Edric said dryly. “That was it.”

“Her name is Joy, Joy Hill; and the only crime she ever committed was being born a Lannister in everything but name. Protect her from what’s coming, and I’ll be forever grateful to you, Lord Edric.”

Edric snorted, but as the last Unsullied soldier entered the room above, the Lord of Starfall grabbed the metal struts and began to climb, Dawn strapped to his back.

Tyrion, unable to suppress the smirk on his face, followed him, Grey Worm taking up the rear.

Tyrion’s old rooms were as far away from Tywin and the influential Lannisters’ quarters as possible. That meant his rooms were underground. Casterly Rock’s formidable strength came not from its walls, but it’s position. Over several thousand years, the Lannister family had transformed what had once been an open-pit mine into a fortress deep inside the mountain itself. The pit had become a giant open-air, hollowed-out central space enclosed by rock on all sides. The ground floor, known as the amphitheatre, held a fantastic display of underground plant life and carved statues, vents in the ceiling shining beams of moonlight down on the trees. It was here that the Lannister’s buried their dead Lords. Below the gardens were the prisons, deliberately placed so that water from the soil dripped down through the stone into the dark. Rooms and halls were located around the tiers as they staggered like an inverted pyramid up to the peak, and the outside, where the ruling Lannisters had their suites overlooking Lannisport and Sunset Sea. Tyrion’s rooms were on the lowest residential level, set so far back that only rock was beneath them – the perfect place for a secret entrance or exit into the sewers. The two tiers below were for laundering, food storage, and the kitchens.

Tyrion and Grey Worm stepped up to the window, looking out over the amphitheatre. Tyrion pointed down to the ground level, and the thick steel gates barring main entrance to the fortress, an enormous tunnel barred by three separate gates.

“Winning the gates will not be easy,” Grey Worm said. “But it will be far easier than assaulting them from outside. You were right, Lannister. This place is impregnable. Without this passage, taking the keep would have been impossible.”

Tyrion almost gapped. That was the first nice thing the Unsullied leader had ever said to him. He was so stunned in fact that he didn’t even remember to make a jape before Grey Worm was hefting his spear and opening the door. Then he signalled his men with a wave of the hand, and the twenty soldiers filed out of the room, running towards the tunnel.

“Seventh-level,” Edric recited, “Third suite across. In and out.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Edric looked Tyrion in the eye.

“I’m not doing it for you.”

Edric vanished out the door, and Tyrion took up a position with his two remaining guards, staring out the window with bated breath.

It didn’t take long for the sounds of fighting to start echoing through the amphitheatre and up into the fortress. A few seconds later, Tyrion watched as Grey Worm’s soldiers overwhelmed the few Lannister guards on the inside of the inner gate, and began raising the barrier.

The bells started tolling through the fortress as they got the gate open and raced into the tunnel, out of Tyrion’s view. Lights flickered to life in windows across the tiers, and shouts and cries of began bouncing off the walls, confusing the location of the actual fighting. Adrenaline flooding him, he kept flickering his gaze from the tunnel to the seventh tier. He spotted Edric only once. Dismembering a man with Dawn then shoving his corpse over the steel railing to drop the fifty-something feet to the amphitheatre below.

Tyrion had no idea how much time actually passed or how many Lannister soldiers he saw rush into the tunnel and never come out before he heard the final gate gears grinding into motion. As soon as they did so, an unmissable signal tore through the entirety of Lannisport.

Drogon roared an echoing challenge to all who might hear, setting fear into the hearts of men, women and children alike.

The door to Tyrion’s rooms slammed open, and Edric Dayne stormed inside, a seventeen-year-old girl with short-cropped golden hair clinging to his back. Dawn, milky white blade dripping with red, was clutched in his free hand.

“Time to go!”

“Uncle Tyrion!” Joy exclaimed, eyes lighting up as she put eyes on him.

“It is I, and right now, we need to high tail it!”

The Unsullied slammed the door closed as an entire regiment of wakened Lannister guards came rushing along the walkway outside. Edric let Joy down and guided her towards the manhole. Tyrion caught his eye and gestured in thanks. Edric gave a single nod in reply, then climbed down the ladder, Joy behind him. The Unsullied followed, and Tyrion cast one last glance towards the window before joining them. Unsullied and Dornishmen started pouring through the tunnel-like a floodgate, crashing into the Lannister soldiers as they desperately tried to push them back.

Tyrion turned away from the carnage, sick to his stomach, and climbed down into the sewers.

The cries of dragons and death followed him.

* * *

# Jon VI

Jon would be lying if he said he was surprised when one of the guards came to tell him Arya had vanished in the night.

He’d expected as much.

Arya would be heading south with as much speed as she could muster, and if the howling they’d heard outside the keep of New Castle was any indication, Nymeria had been waiting for precisely that.

Arya was not well. Not at all. And it teared him up inside to see it in her. But he also knew that locking her up would be even worse. And he couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t kill the guards posted to watch her.

As much as he hated it, letting her go was the only thing he could do. Maybe, if she got the vengeance she craved, reunited with Nymeria, she could heal, if only a little.

He couldn’t worry about Arya. He needed to focus on saving the North. He was a good fighter, and a decent commander, but he was no great tactician. He’d spent hours and hours with Myrcella, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, Sansa and Daenerys going over plans and backup plans to reclaim the North, and he’d memorised each one. He could do this. He would free his homeland, recover Winterfell for Sansa. Then he would leave the politicking to her. Fly south with Rhaegal and find Myrcella and Arya.

He just hoped he wouldn’t miss the birth of their next child.

He dressed and made his way down to Lord Manderly’s solar to break his fast with Sansa and Lord Wyman. Once there, the old Lord filled them in on everything that had been happening in the North since the Boltons took over. They talked at length of the cruelty of Ramsey Bolton, of the torching of Winterfell, of the massacre at Moat Cailin. Then Wyman spoke of the Wildling attack on the Wall that Stannis had broken at the last minute, and the failed attempt to recapture Winterfell that ultimately led to Stannis’ death.

“What happened to the Wildlings that survived?” Sansa asked, warming her hands around a mug of hot tea.

“There are conflicting reports,” Wyman said uncertainly. “Lord Umber claims whole packs of them are running wild through the Gift and poaching on his lands, but I don’t believe a word that comes out of that traitor’s mouth. The Karstarks haven’t said the same, though they’re siding with Bolton, and the Foresters who escaped the Sack of Ironrath say they haven’t seen any Wildling bands either.

“What is certain is that your cousin Benjen is now the Lord Commander. He’s been sending ravens out to all the Northern Lords, begging for help. Says dead men are walking beyond the Wall. If this were any other time, I’d send some men to see what the hell he’s talking about, but I can’t risk it at the moment.”

Jon and Sansa shared a worried look. Dead men beyond the Wall? That was no coincidence.

Their first night back in Northern waters, Arya, Sansa and Jon had all woken from the exact same dream. A dream in which the Wall came crashing down and corpses on dead horses rode through the ruins. It had shaken them all to the core, so much so that they’d mentioned it to each other. Three people all having the same dream at the same time was not natural, but they’d agreed not to say anything more unless it happened again. It hadn’t. Maybe this was why.

And Jon had a brilliant idea.

“I’ll go investigate,” Jon said into the silence. “I can be up there and back in a day if I take Rhaegal, and we’ll need weeks to put together an army to take Winterfell. I’ll go and look for these Wildling raiders, and torch them if need be. Secure our northern flank. I can also scout Last Hearth and Karhold – not to mention, scare the shit out of them. Then I’ll meet Benjen, get a full report of what happened with this King Beyond the Wall and Stannis, and ask about these dead men. If dragons are back, we can’t just ignore an army of walking corpses.”

_Especially if they can break through the Wall._

“Jon… we need you here. I can’t deal with the Lords on my own. They need proof you can control Rhaegal, and seeing a male member of House Stark will be a lot better than me, a woman,” Sansa said.

“You sell yourself short,” Jon retorted. “You’ll be far better at getting the Lords on your side than I will, and with me far away for the negotiations, you won’t have to worry about me screwing up. It won’t take long – I’ll probably be back for the meetings anyway. I’ll certainly be here for the battle. That’s what I’m good at anyway. Not to mention, keeping Rhaegal on the move will prevent any spies from getting near him.”

Sansa couldn’t fault his logic, judging by the straight face she directed him.

“For what it’s worth,” Wyman added, “Knowing if there really is a threat coming from the rear will be mighty valuable. He could even put Last Hearth to the torch!”

Jon flinched, the smell of burning men and women flooding his senses. The screams of the dying and the stink of a city turned to ash. He wouldn’t do that again. He refused.

Sansa sighed.

“Alright. Go North to Uncle Benjen, give him my love. And scout for these Wildlings. But _do not_ attack Karhold or Last Hearth or the Dreadfort without clearing it with us first. It could ruin our entire position, and I won’t condemn innocent women and children.”

Sansa had seen the horror of dragon fire too.

Jon rose to his feet, eager and excited for something to do after weeks stuck aboard a ship away from Myrcella and Arya.

“Will do.”

Then he turned on his feet and raced back to his rooms to change, calling to Rhaegal with his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardhome is next... :)


	6. We need your help

Sorry, but not a chapter update. We're in the middle of writing the next chapter which will be centred around Jon, Bran, Benjen and Hardhome, and we've run headfirst into the age-old question of... what the fuck do the White Walkers/Others actually want. Because to just 'kill everyone' is kind of a cop-out, and it's totally boring, which is probably why it's taking us so long. But then we were reading Rhythm of War this week, and we had an idea. 

We came up with a way to make the Night King and the White Walkers' motivations actually interesting, make Bran and Meera really important characters, and give Myrcella and Jon perhaps the most epic and romantic moment we've ever written. And we pulled off the Enchanted scene in Gemini Curse, so that's saying something.

However, we have been told numerous times that we have a habit of letting grand setpieces get in the way of the story we're telling, and we're trying to learn from that.

So we need your help. Do you want us to take the time to flesh out the concepts we discussed above, or would you all prefer we stick to the ending we originally had planned - _**fair warning**_ there will be a fuck tonne of deaths either way.

The more answers, the better.

Love, Ghost and Miracle.


End file.
